Behind the Monster: A Mystery
by Citizen Cinemaniac
Summary: Paris, 1871:Detective Holmes arrives at the Opera to investigate the taking of a ballerina. Soon, it becomes a murder case, and Holmes must accept help from the mysterious, brilliant Phantom set on saving the killer's latest girl- his beloved Christine.
1. Prologue

Zara Bernhart- actress

Marie Tagleoni- dancer

Christine Daae- singer

Irene Adler- thief

Charlotte Garnier- architect

Emily Dickenson- writer

Mary Casatt- painter

Talma -magician

Aimee Beach- musician

Prologue

She was so beautiful in that moment, staring heartbrokenly at him, her eyes pleading with him. Her gaze fractured his soul, chocolate brown eyes staring into his own. He couldn't help but to love her so much, to want her so badly. In the depths of his broken, twisted mind, he knew he was horrible, but he was a desperate man. He would do anything for her- die for her, kill for her. And he had. Even now, clutching the rope that would end the life of his greatest enemy, he was dying.

"_Angel of music,_

_You deceived me_…"

She accused, but there was more misery in her tone than anger. This was even worse. Her misery was his fault, and he couldn't bear it.

"I gave you my mind blindly." She said to him, her voice shaking.

She didn't know how much it cost him to swallow his tears and say, in a voice filled with the rage he harbored within him, "You try my patience. Make your choice."

She stared at him, at Raoul. She was torn, in the worst way. He was a monster! A monster… yet, even now, he was her angel, her beloved, forever and always. But Raoul would always protect her, always love her… wouldn't he? Wasn't he the right one? Papa would want her to be happy… but what would make her happy? Raoul would make her happy, give her everything. But her Angel… _He is no Angel!_ She berated herself, _He is a monster. Your monster. My beloved monster_… His earlier words came to her… "_This loathsome gargoyle who burns in hell, but secretly yearns for heaven… This repulsive carcass who seems a beast but secretly dreams of beauty_…" Oh god, what had happened to him? What had happened to her Phantom? She looked up at him, at his tortured face, at what he was doing. What would have happened to him that he saw this as his only option?

Quickly, to assure herself as much as Raoul, she mouthed to him, _I love you_.

_Do I?_ she wondered. _Of course I do! We're going to be married, we'll be happy_… She looked up at the Phantom, and still she wondered. Even now, even with his disfigurement in full view, he had never seemed so beautiful to her, so compelling. And she was afraid of the feelings that welled up inside of her when she saw him, afraid of even him. And she felt so sorry for him, how he had suffered, how she was hurting him…

"_Pitiful creature of darkness_," she found herself saying,

"_What kind of life have you known_?"

She waded down through the water towards him, letting all her feelings for him well up inside her, build up and lead her closer to him. The wedding dress he had made floated up around her, pure white on the water. He stared at her, so vulnerable, and she saw he was infinitely more lost, more hurt than she had ever been. She came ever closer to him, and she didn't know what powerful, unstoppable force it was that made her slip his ring onto her wedding finger.

"_God give me courage to show you-_

_You are not alone!_"

And she breached the small gap between her lips and his, and she kissed him, crushing her lips against his.

Instantly, she was aware that this was different from kissing Raoul. He was more open, and she knew no one had ever kissed him, yet as his unfamiliar lips moved against hers, it was all she could do to not let the passion, the frenzied desire sweep her off her feet. Suddenly, the painfully sweet sensation was all that existed in the world, of his silky lips undulating passionately against her own, his tongue suddenly slipping into her mouth, tangling against hers…

He had never known anything like this. He could live a thousand lifetimes and still treasure this moment, still want to hold onto her forever, her ivory skin coming alive beneath his fingertips, her hands, one pressed against his chest, one caressing and tracing the angry pattern of his disfigurement. The pleasure, the sensation nearly made him collapse, but still he fiercely, yet tenderly kissed her, not knowing what to do, but instinct, his love for her carrying him on swift wings.

She pulled back, feeling his tears fall against her cheeks, hot and painful. And she forgot Raoul standing there, she forgot the world around her, she even forgot the Opera. All she knew was this beautiful, passionate, ardent, sensual, tender, broken man before her, and she knew, with a flash of pain in that moment, that these feelings swelling inside of her were unlike anything she had ever felt even with Raoul. And she knew she would never feel these terrifying, powerful feelings with anyone else.

She kissed him again, and again he couldn't decide where he would keep his hands- tangled in her curls, smoothing down her back, along her hips, her waist, over her gossamer face or neck… he loved her so much, he couldn't help but cry. He knew she couldn't possibly love him, that whatever he felt her passionately kissing him with must be something else. So when she pulled away, he cried even harder, unable to bear it.

She didn't believe the first words that came from his lips- his soft, sensual lips… "Take her. Forget me. Forget all of this." He pushed her away, staggering off as though someone had stabbed him. "Leave me alone."

Dazed, she went to Raoul, untying him, unsure and dizzy. This was what she had wanted, wasn't it? To be free? But as she embraced Raoul, she felt none of the desire, the deep pull in her soul that she had felt touching Phantom.

"_GO NOW! GO NOW AND LEAVE ME_!" he shouted, consumed by hysteria and misery.

Raoul waited behind as she did the most painful thing she had ever had to do.

"_Masquerade…paper faces on parade…_

_Hide your face so the world will never find you…_"

He looked up at her, broken, lost, vulnerable, his blue eyes so beautiful, so pained.

"_Christine, I love you_…" he admitted, helplessly.

Desperately holding back sobs, she gently took his artist's hand in two of her smaller, pale ones. She put the ring she had taken off her finger and pressed it into his palm, wrapping his musician's fingers around it. She gave him one last, lingering look as he broke down into shivering, silent sobs.

She looked back at him once, and he couldn't bear to see that her gaze held compassion, and impossible love he knew wasn't there, his feverish mind was projecting what it wanted to see.

And she left, so afraid, consumed by pain and fear, telling herself she would be happier with Raoul, safer…

But when she looked back at him, she nearly died. His eyes- his beautiful eyes said things to her words could never, would never express.

He was used to pain. He had lived a life of pain. But nothing, _nothing _was like this. Before, he had his music, his sweet music. But with her gone, there was no music. It was only silence, crushing him with the pain of living. He could never hear that music again, her happiness was more important, and he had let her go.

His music was over. His life was over. He was nothing anymore.


	2. Cast of Characters

_All the world's a stage, and the people merely players..._

_-William Shakespeare_

**Cast of Characters**

The Phantom, Erik...….…Gerard Butler

Detective Sherlock Holmes...….…Robert Downey, Jr.

Christine Daae...….Emmy Rossum

Irene Adler...…..…Rachel McAdams

Dr. John Watson...…..…..Jude Law

Vicomte Raoul de Chagny...….Patrick Wilson

Madame Minuette Giry...….….Miranda Richardson

Marguerite "Meg" Giry...….…Jennifer Ellison

Mary Watson...…..….Kelly Reilly

Detective Lestrade...…..…..Eddie Marsan

Lord Jove...…..Thomas Gibson

Miss Zara Bernhart...….…Keira Knightley

Signorina Marie Tagleoni...….…..Penelope Cruz

Madamoiselle Charlotte Garnier...…..… Helena Bonham Carter

Madamoiselle Emilie Dickenson...….…..…. Audrey Tatou

Madamoiselle Mary Casatt...…..….. Nicole Kidman

Talma...Soledad Miranda

Madamoiselle Aimee Beach...…..…..Marion Cotillard


	3. Act I: Enter the Detective

Chapter One

"Are you going to tell me where we're going?"

Sherlock Holmes's bright, lively brown eyes looked up at Watson, as if he had been shaken out of a deep reverie of thought. "But, my dear Watson, that would ruin the element of surprise. Where's the fun in that?"

"Element of surprise be damned, Holmes, enough is enough."

"I should think you'd be a bit more grateful," said Holmes, sounding hurt, almost childish, "My having brought you here, with your dear wife, Mary, to one of the supposedly most romantic cities in all the world-"

"Brought me here? Holmes, have you forgotten the key fact that _I_ am paying for all of us?"

"-as I was saying, brought you here, to Paris," finished Holmes, a completely cool, lazy expression on his face, eyebrow slightly raised, hand propped on its elbow by the window, that always annoyed his dearest friend to no end. "Now, Watson, I think perhaps you shall need more of your cultural essence where we are headed."

"Holmes, for God's sake what are you talking about?"

Holmes exhaled sharply, as if dealing with a stubborn toddler. "If you must know, we are going to the Opera Populaire. I fear a few overpaid, bumbling showfolk are in need of some good English help, seeing as their police have their problems to deal with. Lestrade is here, you know."

Watson's eyes widened. "Parisian occurrences have involved Scotland Yard? Lestrade? _Our _Lestrade?"

"None other," said Holmes, his voice as measured and calm as usual, "So I thought now would be a sufficient time for holiday, especially when I received this rather frantic post from a certain Monsieur Richard Firmin."

"So, I take it this is a real problem?" said Watson.

Holmes raised an eyebrow.

"Well, you wouldn't be here if it wasn't, would you?"

Holmes looked offended. "Watson, after all these years, I'm insulted you have to ask."

Watson sighed. "So why do they need us?"

"My fame apparently stretches across our motherland's borders. Though I am not usually inclined to take cases so far from home, this one held particular interest for me, and the pay is sufficient for rent at least."

"Good. Now, I really hope you can get this over with in an hour or two, because poor Mary is alone at the hotel. I said I'd have dinner with her tonight, you know. Care to join us?"

Holmes looked at him, sighed heavily, and said, "Oh, alright then. I haven't talked to your Mary in quite a while anyway. I suppose I will."

Watson nodded briskly, smiling at Holmes's reluctance. "I'm glad."

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the bumping of the carriage over cobblestones, feeling it jostle them around. Finally, Watson broke the quiet. "So, Holmes- do they have any suspects?"

Holmes looked up from the window. "Excuse me? What did you say?" Watson rolled his eyes, and Holmes grinned. "Suspects, yes. Well, that's the most intriguing feature of this whole unpleasant business."

"How so?"

"They seem to be under the impression that a ghost is behind this. No doubt you recall the strange affair of the Phantom of the Opera- a mystery never fully explained…"

"No, I can't say I do. I've never heard of it, in fact."

"My dear Watson, where have you been? Don't tell me no one has ever told you of the famous disaster?"

"No-"

"Good God, Watson," said Holmes, his eyes shocked, "I must say, I have failed you if I have never told you of this! It is a case that greatly interested me, so little police involvement and no detectives… strange, I know… surely, I must have told you at least once? It happened six years ago, didn't I-?

"Um, no." said Watson, accustomed to his friend's passionate outbursts.

"Oh, well. I'm sure there will be someone there who can tell the story better than I can," Said Holmes, his mood from shocked to completely calm in a moment, "I trust you remember that my not inconsiderable talents do not include storytelling."

"Yes, Holmes, I can honestly say I do."

The grandeur of the Opera House was undeniable, but even as Watson marveled, Holmes sighed dramatically.

"The repairs are sufficient, wouldn't you agree?"

"What repairs?"

"See the marks from the fire on the architecture, Watson? The original décor was much more elegant, I imagine. The differing patterns of inlay, the separate types of wood, and the contrasting colors of plaster- not noticeable, but they are there. This is not the true grand Opera Populaire." Said Holmes, his tone filled with something that was almost regret.

Watson looked up, feeling like a fool, only noticing what seemed so obvious now after Holmes had pointed it out. This didn't bother him anymore though- he had become used to it spending so much time with Holmes. _If I hadn't, I'd probably have gone mad by now_, he thought to himself as the came up the marble steps.

They were met with the sight of Lestrade talking to an older woman, dressed completely in black. She looked slightly disdainful, and her expression rather reminded Watson of Holmes talking to children.

"No doubt you have come to help us, Officer, as entertainment is universal," she said as Holmes and Watson came up, "But I'm afraid you will have to wait for the managers to arrive before you hear all the facts. I am not at liberty to tell you everything. Surely your superiors must have filled you in?"

"I have no superiors. I am chief of Police," said Lestrade, flashing his badge. "But, I have a hunch that a friend of mine will be arriving soon, and he will know the facts, as he usually does." He admitted, disgruntled.

"Right as usual, Lestrade, and how pleasant to see you." Said Holmes, as he and Watson joined the pair.

"You took your time." Said Lestrade, as his customary greeting.

"Are you going to introduce us to your friend?" said Watson, gesturing towards the woman and offering a smile. She raised an eyebrow, but smiled back.

"I am Madame Giry." She said.

"The ballet mistress," added Holmes, and to Madame Giry's look of slight shock, explained, "Your hair is in a bun, you move with certain grace, you walk with your toes pointed, your skirt does not carry the usual styles of Parisian women, your fingers have dust on them from pointe shoes, and you are a bit old, no offense meant, to be a ballerina. Therefore, I can only incur with your manner of dignity, intelligence, sternness, but dedication, that you must be the ballet mistress. Am I not correct?"

She nodded graciously, offering a small smile. "You are, sir."

She looked at Watson, and offered her hand. "You must be John Watson, the doctor. Some of the ballet girls mentioned you might come with him," she said, "They've read your stories."

Holmes looked at Watson, grinning conspiratorially, "Yes, Watson keeps avid records of our cases together."

"I read a few of them," she admitted, "Only to see what all the fuss was about. That was why I suggested you to the managers."

"That was probably for the best," mumbled Lestrade, slightly put out.

"Now, Lestrade," said Holmes, "I take it you've brought Clarky?"

"Indeed," said Lestrade.

"Good. Now, if you would be so kind, I'd like to send him to fetch a few ballet girls. They are the gossipers of the Opera House, if I am not correct, and may have heard things we haven't." said Holmes, business-like.

"Tell them to send for Meg," said Madame Giry, "My daughter. She's a gossip, unfortunately, but she tells me much. Perhaps if I trust you, she will."

"You trust us, then?" said Watson.

"I trust you, yes. You seem the trustworthy sort," she replied, then looked at Holmes, "As for you, you- remind me of… someone I know very well. I've learned to trust my feelings, in all my years."

"Good," said Holmes.

Watson exchanged some talk with Madame Giry, as Holmes walked around the entrance hall, making his own quiet observations as his keen eyes took in every miniscule detail of the room.

Suddenly, two flustered voices were heard from the doors.

"Inspector Lestrade? Mr. Holmes?" came one, from a tall man with brown, gray streaked hair and moustache.

"Madame Giry, thank you for keeping them while we came," said the other, shorter, with curly, well-maintained gray hair, and a moustache of his own.

Holmes turned on his heels, walking swiftly on his long legs to the two men, while Lestrade followed suit, on shorter legs behind him.

"Monsieur Richard Firmin," he said, offering his hand to the taller one, who shook it, bewildered, "And Monsieur Gilles Andre," he said, shaking the shorter one's hand, "My name is Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You both seem to have written me a letter."

"How did you know which of us was which?" said Andre, confused.

"Monsieur Firmin, that's a very nice gold pocket watch you have. Was it expensive to have it monogrammed with your initials, R.F.?" said Holmes, pointing out the said article. "Therefore I could only assume you-" he turned to the shorter man "-were Andre, an assumption that was reinforced by your own silver stickpin with the A on it." He said, again pointing out the pin that was nestled in Andre's burgundy, silk cravat.

They both just stared at him, bewildered. To Watson, they looked like overdressed, self-important fools, bumbling and greedy. He had learned a few tricks of deduction from Holmes.

"Why did you call me?" said Holmes, raising a hand, preemptively silencing both of the managers calls, "Yes, yes, you sent me a letter- a frantic letter, I may add, but I do not work from words written in shaky handwriting on paper. I would much prefer you gentlemen enlightened me verbally."

The two men exchanged nervous glances.

"Oh, come now! You want his help, don't you?" said Watson, trying his best to keep his tone as free from disdain and exasperation as possible. Not entirely sure he had succeeded, he continued, "You dragged us all this way, might as well let us in on it."

"The prima ballerina, Miss Marie Tagleoni, was abducted from her dressing room without warning, we believe from her dressing room two evenings ago. She was well-liked, one of the most talented women I have ever had the pleasure of working with, and locked her door every night." Said Madame Giry, and Watson could sense a silent exasperation in her tone as well.

"So… those are the facts?" said Holmes, his eyes calculating and intense.

Madame Giry nodded.

"I would like to see her room," said Holmes.

The managers looked uneasy. "Um, Mr. Holmes? There's something you should know, before you investigate. We have a suspect…"

"Monsieur Firmín, I appreciate the sentiment, but I would like to investigate the scene before you tell me your suspect list… it helps, trust me." Said Holmes, calm and cool, completely unaffected by the flustered attitudes of the two managers, and the other inhabitants of the Opera House gathering round.

Watson was calm because Holmes was, but he noticed something odd. Madame Giry was the only one who, it appeared, was making an effort to remain calm. Holmes paused for a moment, his sweeping gaze missing nothing as he took in the frightened, pale faces of both men and women gathered around him.

"How many people live in the Opera House?" asked Holmes, turning back to the managers.

"Around 500 something," said Andre, saying it almost like a question, looking a bit sheepish.

Madame Giry rolled her blue eyes. "There are 664 people in this Opera House, monsieur."

"Yes," said Andre, blushing furiously, "Of course."

Holmes looked at the two managers. "A year ago- how many, Madame Giry?"

"665," she admitted softly, "There was a girl- who left. She got married."

"Christine Daae, her name was," said Holmes.

They stared at him in shock. "How did you know? You have heard about it?"

"No," he said, "But your Madame Giry's silver locket is engraved with three names- Meg, is first, no doubt her daughter. Then, slightly harder to see, Christine Daae- I suspect she was like a daughter to you as well, dear Madame. But it is the third engraving that holds enigma for me, Madame._ E_- an initial, I would hazard, a man's name- the script is not as flowery as the other two. Not your husband- his name would be more prominent. No, this is an afterthought, not hidden- so not an affair, not that I doubted your honor, Madame- But hidden nonetheless. So, perhaps a brother or child who died? No? He's still alive, then. Where is he, dear Madame, inform us."

Madame Giry stared at the detective, then spoke slowly. "My son, Erik, is very sick. He is in a sanitarium in Sicily. I pay for it but I cannot afford to visit him. Is that what you wanted to know?"

Holmes studied her face, pausing for a half-second in his examination, so his pause could only be recognized by a perceptive person who knew him very well. Watson, who exemplified both qualifications, noticed it when no one else did. Holmes spoke. "I am very sorry, Madame. Perhaps you could show me to the crime scene- that is to say, the dressing room from which your prima ballerina was taken?"

She smiled politely. "Right away, monsieur."


	4. Act II: The First Player

Chapter Two

"So, now that we are out of earshot of those rather overdressed sparrows of men," said Watson, "I think my friend's intention is to question you, Madame Giry. Since you seem to be the only one here with your feet planted on the ground, and some sense and reason in that head of yours."

She turned, but there was no smile on her lips at the light jesting tone of Watson's voice. "You are wise, doctor." She said, and her lips twitched in a quick semblance of a smile, then abruptly, just as quickly as it had come it was gone. "But we are not here today to speak of the fact that I am the only person you have met with sense in the Opera House."

"Is there anything you would like to tell us now, now that those 'rather overdressed sparrows of men'- as my dear Watson so colorfully and rather accurately referred to your pompous friends as- are indeed incapable of hearing you now, Madame?" said Holmes, his eyes intense.

She faced them both, scrutinizing them with a stern, piercing gaze for a few moments. Then she sighed. "What I am about to tell you will at first cause you to conclude that we are all insane, but I assure you, not all of us here have lost our minds quite yet."

"I doubt I have ever met anyone who seems as sane as you, Mme. Giry," said Holmes, "However, in my business, I am not in the habit of dealing with fully lucid people, so perhaps I am not the one to ask."

"True, sir, true." She smiled. "But before I tell you anything, you must examine the crime scene." She said, standing by the door and taking a key out of her pocket, slipping it into the lock and looking up at them for affirmation.

They both nodded in unison, and she pushed the door open. It swung on its hinge, and the strong, raw horror of the crime scene finally met the cold, calculated, deductive eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

_"Christine. Look at me. Are you afraid?"_

_ "No," she said, and kissed him again and again and again, never growing tired of the feel of his lips on hers, never wanting him to stop kissing her with that immeasurable, irrevocable love and passion that Raoul would never understand._

_ For it was not her husband that kissed her in the darkness. It was the man she truly loved, cared about, needed so badly it hurt._

_ "Why did we have to be like this?" she asked him, trying to reach him through the bars between them._

_ "Like this… so far away. So hurt. So alone…" he mused, then looked up at her. "I have not stopped asking God that question since I can remember. He never answers. But why would he answer me? He is far more likely to answer you- better an angel than a demon…"_

_ "Don't say that! You are not a demon!" she said, reaching for him as he was dragged away from her. "Where are you going? No, please, come back! COME BACK! PHANTOM!"_

_ "Am I not a demon, Christine?" he asked her, looking her just as he had on the night of Don Juan Triumphant. "I love you…"_

She woke up screaming.

Mme. Giry had initially expected at least one of the Englishmen to panic. But somehow, now, when neither of them did- when both looked on with relative calm, if a bit disgusted, gazes- she was not really surprised.

She remembered how hysterical her own daughter Meg had been when she had first come running to say that Marie was gone.

She hadn't understood Meg's hysteria until she had seen the dressing room herself.

Yet, as Holmes clinically and professionally examined the scene without a hint of shock or fear in his eyes, she couldn't help but wonder if he had ever seen anything like this before.

Holmes was not one usually inclined to taking a liking to people he had only just met- in fact, he was not usually inclined to taking a liking to people in general. They made him uncomfortable- he much preferred his work to the company of other people- with the exception, of course, of his dear friend Watson and his muse and sometimes lover Irene Adler. As well, he had come to have a sort of fondness Lestrade and Clarky, as well as Mary, Watson's wife. But those were the exceptions… he was not a man with many social aspects in his life. He could be charming if he liked, but he was simply not a man of the people. He did them justice, and that was enough. However, this Madame Giry seemed quite sensible, and if he had not quite taken a _liking_ to her, he had decided that she would not bother him as some criminal victims he got involved with did. He actually thought he might _enjoy_ her help, and her company. Refreshing change from all the tittering, fainting, rather corpulent older women he usually had the horror of dealing with in his criminal records…

This was not, however, the first thought that came into his mind. The first was a clinical analyzing of the room from his professional perspective.

The theatricality of the crime scene was a masterpiece of vicious proportions, a morbid, repulsive work of art. The ballerina's numerous costumes of chiffon and lace were hanging, nailed from the walls, with red liquid splattered all over them. Her ballerina shoes were hanging from the seat at the vanity, also covered in crimson cascades trickling down the pale pink silk. Strange patterns and symbols were drawn across the mirror of the vanity- in rouge, it seemed… it was thicker than the other liquid splattered across the room… All the ballerina's flowers from admirers were crushed and strewn around the floor, also splattered with the scarlet. Also, the long mirror in the room was dominated by a message, written in dripping red letters on the shining silver of the mirror:

**ALL THE WORLD'S A STAGE**

Below that, in a smaller, more handwriting-like scrawl, was written:

**THE FIRST PLAYER**

**GODS HAVE CHOSEN AT LAST**

"The first quote- is it not Shakespeare?" asked Madame Giry.

"Yes, but who the Hell is Terpsikhore?" asked Watson.

"I don't know, but whoever was going for dramatic effect was fully aware that the color he wanted was red." Said Holmes.

"Is it human blood, monsieur?" asked Madame Giry, businesslike. Holmes liked her calm question, despite her obvious mistake.

"No." he said, "It's not even blood, actually." Her eyes widened slightly, but that was the only indication of surprise. "Real blood turns brown after a half hour." He knelt, rubbing some of the substance between his fingers, and smelling it. "From the smell, it could be either red paint or ink, although the thicker viscosity leads me to believe it is paint." He said, tasting it. "Ah. It is paint." He looked up. "Unfortunately, this gives us no clue besides the fact that our criminal kidnapper is quite a theatrical madman."

"What does he mean, God's have chosen at last? That makes no sense."

"No, you are just misunderstanding him. You are thinking of it in a monotheistic point of view- this fellow apparently leads towards the more polytheistic beliefs. I should think the Gods of Ancient Greece."

"What makes you think that, Holmes?" asked Watson.

"The letters on the vanity's mirror. They're Greek lettering." Said Holmes, taking out his notebook and scrawling them down.

"Is that so? And pray tell, what do they say?"

"Well, let's see… Tau, epsilon, rho, psi, kappa, eta, omicron, rho, eta…"

Madame Giry raised a stern eyebrow. "I beg your pardon, Monsieur?"

Holmes sighed, then showed them his paper, tapping each letter with his pencil as he named it. "Tau-" he pointed to the Τ, "Epsilon-" he tapped the Ε, "Rho-" the Ρ was pointed out, "Psi-" the not so familiar form of Ψ, "Kappa-" the staccato tap on the Κ, "Eta-" this time a Η, "Omicron-" a simple Ο "Rho" the P appeared once again, "Epsilon." Finally, he finished at the E.

"And it reads what exactly, for those of us who know no Greek and have no time to research it as they have wives at home waiting for them?" said Watson, a touch irritably.

"Really, Watson, I expected more of you. You are after, all, a doctor…"  
"While this may qualify me to know Greek words, I have never been entitled nor encouraged to learn the actual characters."

"Yes, I know that, calm down." Said Holmes.

"Of course you know that. You know everything."

With a strange sort of fascination, she watched the highly amusing banter between the two grown men, saying the most childish things. She felt the strange urge to giggle. "So what does it say, Monsieur? I should think you have kept us in suspense long enough." She interrupted.

Without a word, Holmes held up his notebook. Beneath the Greek characters was scrawled a single word- "TERPSIKHORE."

"And what is that?"

Sherlock fixed her with a quizzical stare. "You know, Madame, really Greek things are not my area of expertise. It seems I will have to learn. Where is the nearest library?"

"It's no used, Holmes. Whatever the Commune didn't take, is left here because it's secular. There's no mention of anything vaguely historical. It's ridiculous here. We'd have to go back to London to find a decent book. You've been here for nearly 16 hours. I've been here for five of those hours. I insist, you have to get out of here and into the scene. You'll be of more use there."

"Watson, do you honestly think I'd be in here if this was not important? Without finding what this means, I have no hope of solving this. This is crucial, I know it for a fact!" Holmes hissed, his voice desperate and his eyes blazing with a sort of demoniac, obsessive light.

Watson sighed. "How do you know that?" Holmes waved him off. Watson rolled his eyes, then sat beside Holmes at the library desk, pulling up a chair and breaking into Holmes's train of thought. "When was the last time you ate?"

Holmes snapped. "Do you mind? I'm trying to…"

"When did you last eat?" asked Watson firmly. Holmes continued flipping the pages, not answering. "For that matter, when did you last drink? Or change? Or bathe? Or sleep, for that matter?"

Holmes turned to him, a childish expression of annoyance on his face. "You know, you have no respect for deep, deductive thinking."

"That's a lie. I have enormous respect for it. However," said Holmes, pulling Holmes seat out from under him, letting Holmes tumble to the floor. "I have decidedly more respect for basic survival needs. And so should you."

"Then that would make me like everyone else," said Holmes, taking Watson's proffered hand, "I might be a little more comfortable- but I've never really found it in me to be like everyone else, have I, Watson?"

Watson chuckled, replacing his hat. "No, that you have not."

"And how did you gentlemen sleep?" asked Firmín, looking peaked and tired.

"Better than you, I should imagine." Replied Holmes.

"Ever since seeing the crime scene, neither him nor I have caught a wink of sleep, it seems," admitted Andre. "I have never seen anything like it."

"Didn't Madame Giry warn you as he suggested her to?" said Watson suddenly.

"Well… yes. But, well, you see…" stammered Andre, turning bright red. Firmín, beside him, also looked unusually scarlet-toned.

"You thought that since she is, after all, a woman, and she could handle it- well, then, of course you could! Isn't that right, gentleman?" said Holmes, his tone- previously polite- now filled with undisguised iciness and disgust. Neither manager found the courage to answer, both looking down at their well-shined, expensive leather shoes. Holmes continued, in the same clipped, coldly furious tone. "This, gentlemen, is where you made your crucial mistake- by assuming her female gender made her inferior to you. You didn't use common sense and reason- which, if you are interested at all, would have told you she is, in fact, of a far more intelligent, strong, and brave constitution than either of you. Instead you realized on unproven, false, and generally insulting prejudices. I suggest it is a mistake you do not repeat, or the price may be more than a few nights of sleep lost. Only a suggestion, men." He finished.

Both of the managers mumbled their embarrassed, crimson-faced assent, once again shuffling their handmade leather shoes as they nodded and hunched over.

"Mr. Holmes?"

All the men turned. Standing there was a petite, dark-eyed blonde, staring at them. She smiled uncertainly, making a polite curtsey. "Forgive me… Monsieur Firmín… Monsieur Andre." She shifted her gaze. "Mama would like you two gentleman to come join her. She will tell you the suspect list- our managers have busy schedules, she says."

"Your mother?" said Watson. "And who is that?"

The girl blushed. "Oh! Oh, I'm so terribly sorry! She's-"

"You are Marguerite, commonly Meg, Giry, and your mother is Madame Giry, the ballet mistress. And you are a ballerina." Said Holmes, looking up as though there was something awfully interesting written on the lobby's ceiling.

She gasped quietly. "How- How did you-? I don't understand…"

"You have your mother's nose, and her cheekbones, and build- and you of course share her pinna- or outer ear- a trait, might I say, most commonly passed on by genetic traits. I suspect your hair and eyes you have from your father- God rest his soul. The ballerina is obvious- you are wearing a practice skirt, and a pair of Pointe shoes. Watson could have guessed that- sorry, Watson, I am not, in any way, shape, or form, insulting your gargantuan intellect," said Holmes, carrying on the same calm fashion the entire time. "Hmm… your mother wears a locket engraved with your initials. M.G. Obviously, G stands for Giry. I was temporarily perplexed as to your first name, but was saved by the poster I recall seeing outside the Opera House, advertising our ill-fated Signora Tagleoni, and the list of the members of the ballet ensemble- one of them being, you, dear- Marguerite Giry. Since you are younger, it was only an elementary step to assume you went by Meg. Which I was right in assuming."

Meg could only manage a nod. "Do you- um. Would you like-to-to come see my mother?" she resumed her lost train of thought.

"Why, of course, dear Mademoiselle Giry." Said Watson kindly, taking her proffered hand and pressing his lips cordially to it. "Don't worry about him. He's brilliant enough, but he's not all that bad. Don't worry."

She smiled sheepishly, as Holmes followed behind them, a strange sort of grin on his face.

"What's amusing you?" asked Watson, as he followed Meg.

"It astounds me, your inability to go anywhere without making a new friend. I swear, you would befriend a lamppost if you had no one else to talk to in a train station." He smiled.

"Oh, shut up."

Christine sat at the breakfast table, alone. It had been a few long months since her wedding- and her failed wedding night. She closed her eyes. No. She couldn't think about it now. She had to be good to Raoul.

She sighed, deciding her husband wasn't planning on joining her for a meal. _He's probably still ill from last night's drinking_, she thought sadly to herself, _How quickly people change. It's only been a year_… a year ago, he had sung to her on the roof. And she, a cowardly, frightened thing, afraid of her true feelings, had hid in his safety. She had hidden under his calm, steady love, even when her own love for him was not a passion, not the flame of romance.

She had made a horrible mistake. One should never marry a man they love as a friend, as a brother figure. Especially when they were in love with someone else.

So she went to her music room, playing a note on the piano and starting her scales. She let the emotionless tone flow from her, knowing that her Angel- her Phantom- would be furious he heard how her voice held no passion. _Well, I have no passion anymore_, she thought, knowing that secretly, some part of her hoped that her lack of feeling might bring him back to part, even if it was only to reprimand her.

She had ruined everything with her cowardice, her naivety, and her foolish assumptions. And she would never forgive herself.

"So, the managers would like me to tell you their suspect list." She looked up at them. "As I understand it, she has no lovers, no family, and all her friends are far away, back at her home in Italy, and the chorus girls here all have reliable alibis- not that I suspect any of them would have ever done this. However, I knew my word wasn't enough. Than the proof that 400 people saw them dancing a preview to Signora Tagleoni's gala should suffice."

"Wonderful, Madame. Now, who do your managers suspect?" said Holmes, sitting back in his chair.

She looked uncertainly up. "Did you- by any chance- hear of the reason our Opera House burned down? Did you hear about the infamous affair… that took place here?"

"Yes." Said Watson, then, noticing Holmes looking at him strangely, shrugged. "I've read your newspaper clippings. I can't clean up that mess in your rooms without finding something not worth burning."  
"Yes, as my associate has told you, we have. I, however, always assumed the Opera Ghost to be a figment of imagination of the ballet girls, spread into the public to explain the unannounced disappearance and reappearance of a soprano and an arsonist that was never caught." Said Holmes coolly.

Madame Giry smiled ruefully. "You were mistaken, Monsieur." At both Holmes's and Watson's confused looks, she met them with complete honesty in her eyes. "You both seem like good men. I think I can trust you. The Opera Ghost was no ghost. He was only a man. A man of flesh and blood, but a frightening genius nonetheless. He was never a figment of imagination. The ballet girls may have used their vivid imaginations to enhance his tale, shall we say…" at this, Meg blushed, "-because none of really knew anything about him- we still do not. What we do know is this- he is disfigured, and wears a mask to cover this deformity. He is an utter genius- a magician, an architect and designer, a composer, a writer, an artist- like nothing anyone in Paris had ever seen. He did horrible things, yes. But I know the truth of the story. Not the vulgar trash the whole of Parisian society has gobbled up like fodder for their empty heads- but the truth."

"And he is the suspect?" said Holmes.

"Yes." Replied Madame Giry.

"Then, Madame, it is crucial we know this 'truth' you speak of so adamantly. If he is real, let us hear the story." Said Watson, pushing himself up from leaning against the desk.

She smiled gently. "He did not take Signora Tagleoni. Trust me, gentlemen. I know this for a fact."

"How, Madame? How can you be sure?" said Watson.

"I just do."

"You just do?" said Holmes. "Really, Madame Giry. I knew you to be a rational woman. You expect me not to realize you're hiding something?"

Madame Giry looked up. "Monsieur?"

"I can tell when you've something to hide, Madame. It's my business to know when people are hiding things, after all. Things like secrets." At this, Madame Giry fixed him with a stern glare. "You know something. What is it?"

"I made the mistake once of telling a story that was not mine. It was not understood, and it did nothing to make the world see. It is not my tale to tell." She snapped angrily.

Holmes never got to reply.

The instant he opened his mouth, every candle in the room was extinguished, the gas lamps flickering out. Both Holmes and Watson stood, tensed and ready. In the dim light, Holmes could make out Meg Giry, reaching out blindly for her mother.

"Mama!" she whimpered, until Madame Giry's shadowy black-clothed form embraced Meg's white-dressed form in the darkness.

"What in the name of God just happened?" said Watson quietly.

"God has nothing to do with it." A voice came through the room.

Watson brandished his walking stick, standing back to back with Holmes, who had lifted his own singlestick as well.

"Is that the elusive Phantom of the Opera we are blessed with the voice of now?" said Holmes into the darkness.

"Perhaps, perhaps not." Came the voice again, seeming to come from right behind him now. In one fluid movement, Holmes brought his singlestick down, and there was a sound of smashing glass and breaking china.

"I do hope there was nothing valuable there, my dear Madame." He said smoothly.

"Ah, but gentlemen, why do you bother Madame Giry? It is my story. Why don't you ask me?"

"Ha! Ask an arsonist and a murderer to tell the truth? Do you honestly think we are not professionals?" shouted Watson in reply.

"Oh, I don't doubt your abilities- Detective Sherlock Holmes, and Dr. John Watson- I've heard of you both. Do you doubt that I've been watching you from the moment you set foot in my Opera House?"

"If you're always watching, how can we know you didn't steal poor Signora Tagleoni? As I hear it, you've got it in for prima donnas!" shouted Holmes.

"Really? I would think a professional like you would know better than to count on the word of liars." Said the Phantom, a dangerous undercurrent of fury running in his words.

"Do not test him, Monsieur." Whispered Madame Giry, and even in the dark, both Watson and Holmes could hear the worry and touch of panic in her voice.

"You wanted to know my answers?" came his voice, and suddenly a light emanated from the mirror. They all turned, and saw a mask illuminated in the glass. The mirror slid aside, and there stood the infamous Phantom of the Opera, his intense blue eyes blazing, his dark hair tousled but smoothed back, dressed in immaculate black clothing. In his hands was his weapon of choice- the Punjab lasso. But as it turned out, he didn't need it.

In a flash, both Watson and Holmes had been disarmed of their walking stick- weapons. They turned back to the Phantom, who snapped one of the sticks over his knee and threw the pieces to the ground. He gestured to Watson. "I'll keep this safe for you, Doctor. I would never break a soldier's award for bravery." Though his words and actions were kind enough, everyone in the room could hear the bitterness in his tone.

Watson's walking stick disappeared into the dark folds of the Phantom's cloak. Then the Phantom leaned against the arch of the doorway created from the sliding mirror.

There was a challenge in his intense, blazing blue-emerald eyes and in the tone of his words, when he spoke "…Ask me your questions, gentlemen. After all, I'm the one who has the answers."


	5. Act III: The Angel Sees, The Angel Knows

Chapter Three: The Angel Sees, The Angel Knows

"So… at last, the Opera Ghost." Said Holmes, his tone dry. "I can't say I ever thought I'd make your acquaintance, sir, but shall I say that for now, I'm quite glad I did."

"Hmm… yes," the Phantom mused, "I do not think poor Mademoiselle Giry shares the sentiment. It seems, for all her curiosity, the appeal of meeting a ghost evaporated when it actually occurred."

Meg blanched even paler.

"It's quite alright, dear. We wouldn't want any of your curious friends trying to listen in, now would we? Madame, if you don't mind."

Madame Giry nodded at the Phantom, imperious and composed. "You will take them somewhere safer, then?"

"Naturally."

"See to it they come back," she said, "Or I swear…"

The Phantom looked almost indignant, feigning hurt. "Madame, I am insulted. When have I ever been one to waste talent?"

Watson was extremely uncomfortable in the strange, elegant home this Phantom had fashioned for himself, but as always, Holmes seemed perfectly at ease as he glanced around him.

Finally he turned to the dark figure of the Phantom standing in the corner. He had an air of nonchalance. "Well…" he said, clasping his hands behind his back, "I love what you've done with your sewer."

Watson nearly expected the Phantom to hurl himself at Holmes- at any moment to see Holmes hanging by a rope around his neck, from the stone ceiling… not that he hadn't seen Holmes hanging in a such a manner before… To his surprise, the Phantom merely smiled sardonically.

"Mr. Holmes," he chided, "We are men of action. Taunts do not become us."

"Didn't seem to stop you," said Holmes, "But I can't help but agree that we are all men of action, here."

The Phantom's face remained expressionless. "You wanted to know about Signora Tagleoni."

Watson shifted. "You know where she is?"

"I do not. Please, jumping to conclusions helps none of us here," said the Phantom, still coldly expressionless.

"Alright. Tell us what happened, then," said Watson.

The Phantom fixed them each in turn with his smoldering blue eyes- eyes that had seen so much, eyes that knew much more than either Holmes or Watson could guess. "On the evening of July 12, 1871, I was- how shall I say- lurking, perhaps, around the Opera House, in the ways only I can, in ways no one knows I watch and no one knows how much I hear. It was on that night I heard- actually the word _sensed_ is probably more accurate-"

"Sensed? What, you mean magically?" said Watson dubiously.

"Do not speak of what you don't know, Mr. Watson. I have my ways, ways which men like you would never understand. You live in the light, and it blinds you, does not let you really see. You lose your other senses, senses you needed once upon a time, and leaves you like a child- a buffoon that rules over all else and decides the rules." He hissed.

Watson didn't speak again. He was a brave man, but he was also clever. And he had every intention of getting back to Mary before the day ended- preferably alive.

"As I was saying…" the Phantom began again, "I sensed something- strange, unusual in the Opera House. Someone was hurt. Someone was screaming. And no one could hear them. I make it my business to know what happens in this Opera House, and it didn't take me long to be able to see into the dressing room you gentlemen just exited."

"Via the passageway through the mirror, perhaps?" said Holmes, speaking for the first time.

The Phantom smiled bitterly. "Maybe, maybe not. There are those who think that is my only way to see and know what happens in the dressing room. They are wrong. To every room, hallway, and corner in my Opera House, there are hundreds of ways I can hear and see what happens there. So, perhaps I was looking through the mirror. But as that is my best known passage, I would, if I were you, assume not."

"I see."

The Phantom raised a brow. "May I continue?"

"Please do."

"I have done many things in my life- horrible things… monstrous things. Some I regret, and some I do not. But never once have I tried to force myself upon a woman. Don't speak. I hear the rumors. I know what they say I did to that young Miss Daae." He spat the name bitterly, anger in his cutting tone and his eyes, but beneath it, Holmes's keen gaze saw the tremor of pain.

"I worried that was what the man was doing the visiting ballerina. I don't like to waste talent, and talented indeed she is. He was ripping at her clothes, trying to take them off of her. I was just about ready to stop him… fiery, strong she may be, but he had knocked her over the head, I suppose, and she had fainted. But I didn't. I admit it openly. Once I saw he was not going to rape her or kill her then and there, I left. What difference does it make to me? She is no concern of mine. I don't think I want another serial killer in Paris- how will I keep the franchise? But I have no intention of going after him. His reasons are for the police to find out. They are none of my business and do not concern me." He finished, his tone as dispassionate and mockingly icy as it had been when he began.

"You could be a great help, you know," said Holmes, "You are, as I have heard it, a man of many talents- talents that would aid us deeply."

"No," said the Phantom easily. "I have told you what I know, for Madame Giry's sake. Now go and leave me in peace. I have had enough of this world to last me my whole life. I have no need of seeing any more."

"You can't- just sit here- while one of your ballerinas-!"

"She is a human being, she is not mine, Dr. Watson. Don't be so foolish. She is no concern of mine. I don't want to waste talent, but why should I take the trouble to help her?"

"She was kidnapped in your theater, as you say. She's your responsibility!" blustered Watson, angry.

The Phantom laughed bitterly. "Please, Doctor. I've never been responsible for anyone. She's just a performer. She means nothing to me. What happens to her is none of my concern."

"You've had interests in performers before, haven't you? What, can't move on from kidnapping a singer to saving a ballerina? Repent for it, don't you think? You need to pay for your crimes against performers in that past- hurting an innocent little ingénue for amusement is hardly-"

But Watson never got to finish his sentence. In one fluid, terrifyingly sudden movement, the Phantom had risen and slammed Watson to the stone wall, pinning him by his throat with an intense, insane light of fury smoldering in his eyes. Holmes tried to stop him, but the Phantom just threw him off.

"DON'T SPEAK OF WHAT YOU DON'T KNOW! YOU KNOW NOTHING, YOU BASTARD, NOTHING! DON'T EVER MENTION HER TO ME AGAIN! SHE'S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS! YOU THINK I SHOULD PAY? IF YOU KNEW HALF OF THE COST I PAID SO DEARLY, YOU WOULDN'T DARE-!"

Holmes tried to pull him off, to which the Phantom responded by smashing his fist out at him, which Holmes blocked. The Phantom grinned. "So you know how to fight?" he hissed.

Holmes didn't reply, focused on the next move. The Phantom was really not much bigger than he was, they were equals…

But the Phantom had never been one to do things people expected.

He suddenly evaporated into the darkness, leaving Holmes to lift a choking Watson, supporting him.

"Had enough of testing criminals for a day?" he said, teasing. In a more concerned tone, he loosened and untied his friends cravat. "Come on, Watson. Take off the gentleman for once in your life, there's a good lad."

Holmes was suddenly kicked to the ground, and when he turned, the shadow of the Phantom in all his enraged glory stood triumphantly over him, fists clenched.

It appeared the Opera Ghost was attempting to control himself, as he spoke through a tensed jaw. "Leave now, the both of you. If you ever set foot here again, I swear to whatever God you worship I cannot and will not be held accountable for my actions. Do you understand?"

"Quite well," said Holmes, ever the sarcastic man.

The Phantom's lips curled into a cynical, humorless grin. "Leave, Detective, you and your doctor. Oh, and Dr. Watson…" he handed Watson the cane he had taken. "I believe this belongs to you."

The two men stood, trying to maintain their dignity. "If you don't mind me asking," said Holmes, "Exactly how do we-'leave you in peace'?"

The Phantom smiled. "I would apologize, but I owe the truth to your gentlemen, and I find that 'I'm sorry' doesn't have the same ring to it if we don't mean it, does it, gentlemen?"

Neither Watson nor Holmes had a chance to speak before suddenly their worlds went black.


	6. Act IV: An Unexpected Visitor

Chapter Four: An Unexpected Visitor

"Well, I have tried to find my way back down there, but I found it simply impossible. The drugs he used on us were rather too potent to overcome, though from the smell I could manage to identify them as an opiate. I should think that my tests on the blood will be ready by tomorrow. Then we'll know for certain what exactly he used on us, clever bastard that he is," said Holmes to Watson, all the while examining the legs of the wine he was drinking on the side of his glass, intently.

Watson stared at him instead of his own wineglass. "Holmes, you ran tests on your own blood?"

"No, no, no, of course not. Don't be ridiculous, why would I do that?" said Holmes. "I used yours. There was some on your cravat from when our friend the Opera Ghost hit you. You know, it was really stupid to bait him like that, and very rude. In the gentleman's own home, too! _Tsk tsk tsk_. Now Watson, where did you learn your manners?"

Watson sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and his forefinger. "Look, Holmes. How do you expect to find out what he used to drug us by studying my blood?"

Holmes leaned forwards, as close to eagerness as he ever was in public. "Well, actually, it's quite intriguing. You see, the chemicals interact with the blood to show us what was injected into our veins. To get this result, we must first–"

"I'm sorry I asked," said Watson wearily. He took a deep breath. "Is that good?" he gestured towards Holmes's glass, reaching to take a sip.

"Oh, it wonderful," said Holmes absently.

"You didn't even try it, did you?" grinned Watson, then tasted it and grimaced. "Holmes, that's horrible! It's the worst I've had all day! What in God's name are you drinking?"

"Something cheap and probably substituted in for a much better quality bottle when a poor bugger off the streets swaggered in here and stole fine wine right from under the management's nose," said Holmes.

"Come, now Holmes, stealing wine and nothing else?"

"You'd be surprised. Back home, it's household silver, here it's fine wine. And you see, if I'm right, there'll be parts of the bottle where the tint will have chipped off to reveal clear glass underneath, mainly on the bottom if I'm not mistaken. Also, if you pull on the label, it should come off quite easily."

Watson tried it, and to his chagrin, Holmes was right.

"You see, real fine wine bottles are fully tinted from the beginning, while the coves who steal it have to paint tint onto a clear bottle since real colored glass is so desperately expensive. Also, winemakers use a special glue on their labels so it doesn't come off quite so easily when you pull it. Thieves and smugglers have no such access to this adherent, thus the weak wrapper. Shall we go?"

"Aren't you going to report it to the place?" said Watson, slightly alarmed, as Holmes rose from his seat.

Holmes paused for a short moment, his face slightly absent. "No, they'll be alright."

Watson weighed this for a moment, then decided there was no reasoning with Holmes, and besides, the business looked to be doing far too well anyway. If the thieving continued, they'd surely notice. He shrugged, then stood. "But I have to buy a bottle of good wine for Mary first, Holmes. Wait here."

Holmes shouted out as Watson left to speak with the managers of the wine cellar, "Don't forget to check the label and the bottom of the bottle before you buy it!" earning some very odd stares from surrounding customers.

Christine read with growing alarm about Marie Tagleoni in the paper, her heartbeat steadily jumping to a higher rate. _It can't be, it can't be, it simply can't…_

"Sound familiar to you, darling?" came her husband's voice from behind her. She stopped cold, frightened, as he snatched the paper from her still fingers. "_Marie Tagleoni, ballerina, age 19, on an artist's journey from her home in Milan, Italy, was abducted from her dressing room two nights ago after the premiere of the ballet preview for the upcoming season. The managers are 'terrified for her safety, praying for her every moment and begging that all who love art in Paris will join them in doing so.' The Surete police investigation is ongoing, and the department has brought in Scotland Yard and a notable private detective, Sherlock Holmes, from England to help with the case. The Surete Chief of Police claims that 'an array of unpleasant characters are suspected for the abominable kidnapping of Signorina Tagleoni, and are all under questioning.' The private detective, Mr. Holmes, has refused to comment. Other ballerinas are terrified and living in fear that they will soon join her_…" he threw the paper down on the table, making her jump.

"Sound familiar?" he repeated.

"You're drunk, Raoul." She said quietly.

"And you're not the only one, are you?" he said, in a kinder tone, though he was still too intoxicated to be any sort of comfort at all.

She bit her lip, trying desperately not to cry. She knew Raoul was wrong. She knew that she had ruined him. She knew she had been the only one, and that thought was the one that made the tears spill over onto her porcelain cheeks. Raoul pulled her clumsily into a whiskey–scented embrace, an uncomfortable one. He remained blissfully oblivious.

"There, there," he kept saying over and over, slurring the words that would have been crisp and clean coming from an another man's lips… lips she couldn't stop herself from imagining... and would have been a more beloved, beautiful voice than her poor Raoul's, as he continued again and again, "It's not just you. You're no different to him than them."

Raoul could convince himself that he was a murderer who took pleasure in young girls' pain, who never felt any attachment to Christine except as a victim of his games and torment.

But Christine did not have the luxury of Raoul's easy, narrow–minded hatred. She had tried, God knew she had, though it wasn't fair. But it didn't matter at all, for no matter what she did… the love still pounded with each beat of her heart, aching and burning. And the love had a far more obvious gift, to which even Raoul remained blissfully oblivious.

Her fingers trailed lovingly over her curving stomach.

"Stop it, Raoul." she said, quietly. "Go rest. Your head will hurt bad enough in the morning as it is."

"Defending him, are we?" growled Raoul, staggering away from her. "Defending the monster who nearly killed us both?"

"He would never have hurt me. And he didn't hurt you. He let us both go… or don't you remember that part?" she couldn't help but to snap at him.

He raised his hand, a violent, furious motion. She flinched abruptly, cowering from him before collecting herself and looking up defiantly, a protective, all-too-familiar instinct rising in her.

He stared at her, hand poised to strike, while her arms coiled protectively, shielding her unusually rounded stomach. They stared at each other for a few moments, realization hitting them at the same time. Raoul stepped backwards, unsteady on his feet. Christine stared up at him, unsure how to react.

Finally, Raoul looked at his shoes. "I'm going out," he mumbled, then stomped unsteadily out of the room.

"Goodbye," whispered Christine, to the slam of the front door. She slouched down, staring at the printed letters on the page. "Sherlock Holmes…" she mused to herself. "Private detective."

The thought made her smile. No private detective she could think of would ever be a match for her Phantom. If he was one of the suspects, they would have to rule him out for lack of proof that he existed.

But her smile evaporated with her next thought. _Well, that's how it would have been before… _she buried her head in her hands_. Stop it, she thought to herself, It was for the best. It happened once, and he made it very clear that it wouldn't again, whatever his reasons_…

She nearly moaned aloud. "Oh, my Angel. My Erik… what have I done to you?"

Mary woke in Watson's arms, to a strange sound that didn't, in any way, fit with the smothering darkness around her. She burrowed deeper into John's arms, groaning and hoping the sound would go away. But, sadly, it didn't.

"Darling?" mumbled John's half–asleep voice.

"Yes, John?"

"Oh, damn. I thought perhaps I was dreaming." His words escaped, slurred with exhaustion.

Mary half–giggled, the laugh muffled at the end by an enormous yawn.

"What is it?"

"He's playing the violin." said Watson, exasperated.

She sat up, listening. "Well," she yawned, "At least he's not a bad violin player."

"Bad violin player, my bloody arse. What time is it?" growled John.

Mary gave him a kiss, then rolled over, putting a silk robe on as the cold air rose goose–bumps on her ivory skin. She turned on the gas lamp, and, by its orange, flickering light, was able to see the time on the clock at the wall.

She sighed. "John, dear?"

He turned, and swore violently. The ornate hands of the grandfather clock were stolidly and mockingly set at the position for 2:37 AM… exactly.

"I'm going to kill him."

Mary smiled. "No you're not."

"Well, at the very least, I may beat him."

"Why don't you just go and talk to him?" she smiled, her blue eyes warm and soft.

John smiled back, leaning down and catching her lips in his, sweetly. He pulled away, tracing her smooth cheek. "You are an angel," he said, "I'll be right back."

Christine lay in bed, staring at the ornate paintings on the ceiling, her fingers absentmindedly tracing her protruding belly. She hated them. She hated the visions of past de Chagny's, nobly posed in battle or in pretentious, snobbish poses; painted in such flattering beauty that Christine was sure not all of them possessed. They stared down at her, as if accusing her with their cold, distant gazes.

Christine had stared at the same arrogant faces on her wedding night.

_Raoul was excited, roughly so. He was awkward and fumbling in his excitement, and he reached towards the place between her legs. She gasped as he touched her inner thigh, in utter discomfort. She shrunk back as he moved to place a kiss on her neck._

_Raoul took a deep breath. "Now, Lotte. You don't need to be nervous. I'll take care of you. Don't worry."_

_"Raoul, I don't know if–"_

_"Don't worry about it, Little Lotte. Just do as I say and you'll be fine."_

This isn't how it's supposed to feel, _she thought in horror, _I know how it's supposed to feel…

_He pushed her back, against the bed. She tried her best to be limp and compliant, but every muscle in her body was tensed in a trembling revulsion that she couldn't deny any longer than she already had. She could only pray Raoul would mistake it for some form of excitement or nervousness._

_"Raoul…"_

_He didn't respond, as he untied her chemise, his lusty eyes focused on her chest. He at last succeeded, and she drew her hands tightly over her bare chest. His eyes flicked up to hers in annoyance._

_For a moment, she was afraid of him._

_But then his blue eyes softened to their usual blank, kind, but empty hue. There was nothing in those eyes, nothing behind them. And she hated him for it, hated him because those eyes were not the eyes of another, not the complex, ever–changing, passionate eyes colored in stormy blue and emerald green that belonged to the man she loved._

_Raoul took a deep breath of irritation. "Now, Christine," he spoke, as if chiding a wayward child. "I know you're nervous, but come now, it is our wedding night. I have the right… we both have the right to enjoy it."_

_She knew that his hasty cover of his dutiful, possessive words was something he thought necessary to keep her nerves at their best. After all, he thought her damaged from her issue with the Angel of Music. _

_If only he knew…_

_Slowly, he drew her unwilling arms to her sides, pinning them by her. She held still, biting her tongue on the sharp gasp of disgust and fear when Raoul's rough hands fell on her breasts. Coarsely, his uncaring fingers kneaded her with a mixture of self–satisfied confidence and a rough inexperience the spoiled nobleman didn't know he had._

_Christine forced herself into an unmoving peace, closing her eyes tight and trying to summon some expression of forced enjoyment. But for the life of her, all that she could process at the moment was pure panic and wanting to stop. _

_His rough hands slid down over her smooth porcelain skin to her undergarment, uncomfortably and violently shoving his hands between her legs._

_She jolted upwards, shoving his hands away and curling up against the bedpost, breathing hard._

_"Raoul," she said, failing to keep the tremor of panic and averseness out of her voice, "Please…"_

_She saw a sudden, familiar flash of anger and superior irritation in his eyes. And she hated it. Her own gaze hardened with defiance. Suddenly, his anger changed to confusion, and he was the childhood sweetheart again._

_"What do you mean?" he said, unable to understand what had gone wrong._

_"I'm sorry, Raoul. I can't. I just can't. Please, darling…"_

_His face had hardened slowly, his jaw clenching. Suddenly he leaped out of bed, his eyes flashing._

_"It's him, isn't it?" he spat._

_Christine knew better than to ask who. Sobbing, she shook her head. "N–no. It's me…"_

If only you knew, Raoul_, she thought in the back of her mind, _If only you knew_._

_"Liar! You little–!" his hand cut into the air, raising past his head as if to strike her._

_She bit her lip and stared up at him. Her night with Erik had changed her. She wasn't a frightened little girl anymore. And she refused to show any form of fear or sorrow to this part of him that she hated so._

_At her defiance, he realized what he was doing. His hand fell limp by his side. But his jaw remained clenched and his eyes bitter. He angrily grabbed his shirt off the floor, putting back on and buttoning it._

_"Raoul, I'm so sorry. Perhaps we…"_

_Perhaps we shouldn't have married._

_I can't love you._

_I love him._

_I love the Phantom._

_I love Erik._

_Not you._

_Say it._

_SAY IT._

_But she couldn't. She couldn't force herself to finish the sentence._

_"We what, Christine? Should wait? What kind of a wife makes her husband wait?" he snapped, as he left the room._

_"Raoul…" she trailed off, the held back tears finally rolling down her porcelain cheeks._

_Her only reply was the heavy slam of the back door, and the carriage rolling away with its white horses outside._

_So she stared up at the ceiling, at the arrogant, superior faces of the de Chagny's riding gloriously and nobly into battle and holding pink–skinned babes aloft to the heavens. Their faces bored into her, torturing her with guilt for what she and Erik had shared the night before. But she would not repent, not for something so beautiful. And this, too, filled her with guilt._

_And so, the new Vicomtesse de Chagny spent her wedding night alone, tormented by visions of the night before, of her night of passion spent in the arms and with the most intimate embraces and touches of the man she loved, her Angel, her life, her Phantom. And as she remembered the pleasure, the beauty she would never again have, she was reminded just how alone she was, and how alone her truest love was, somewhere beneath the same night._

Christine turned back over onto her stomach, refusing to look at the cold stares of the paintings on the ceilings. Still, she felt their gazes burning at the back of her head. "Dear God," she muttered, rising from her bed with a groan of part–anger, part–reluctance.

She stumbled exhaustedly into the closet, choosing a black gown appropriate for visiting her father's grave.

She gasped uncomfortably as she laced her corset, loosening it far more than was proper. But it was neccesary. She ran her hand over her stomach softly and sighed.

Going to speak to her father always made her feel better. To know that wherever he was, he loved her and watched over her always soothed the inflamed scars on her heart.

She didn't like to admit to herself the other reason she visited her father's grave… in hope that maybe her Angel of Music himself might be there, waiting for her.

But the man in the mask never was.

She slammed her bedroom door behind her, glad, for once, that Raoul was out. She hated having to explain to him that yes, cemeteries did not, in fact, close; and that when a woman said she was visiting her father's grave, she was not making an excuse to go find the masked madman said woman's husband so loathed.

As she strode purposefully down the hall, the same De Chagny ancestors stared at her from their portraits hanging on the wall.

_Someday_, she thought, _I am going to take a torch to every single one of these smug, cold hearted pictures and _laugh_ while they burn_.

She was interrupted from her contented reverie by a blood–curling scream.

She whipped her head around.

_Gabrielle?_

The maid's brown eyes were dark and huge and horrified set in her pale, corpse–white face. Her braided red hair was coming loose, the tendrils accenting her fear as they curled erratically around her face. She was shaking as she gripped Christine's shoulders in a way that told Christine that something was very wrong… Gabrielle was a proper, shy young woman who barely could speak to people without worry of being too forward coloring her cheeks pink.

"Oh–oh, Vicomtesse… you must come, quickly… Oh, it's horrible…" gasped the poor maid, fear stopping her words in her throat.

"Gabrielle, dear, look at me," said Christine, trying to comfort the girl by grabbing her hands… only to find her own pale fingers come away red with blood. Shocked, she clutches the maids face in her bloodstained hands in an attempt to get her to focus. "Gabrielle, what happened? _Tell me_!"

Gabrielle stared at Christine and said in a hoarse, terrified voice, "Oh, Madame, please, you must help us… there's _murder_ been done!"

Watson was tempted to break the door down, but he forced himself to remember that he was paying for the hotel rooms, after all.

It was difficult with the strains of violent violin music wildly coming to a crescendo through the door, but Watson finally found the key and burst through the door.

Holmes was standing on a table that had been cleared of all objects, clothed in nothing but a night shirt, loose trousers, and an extremely large red robe that probably did not belong to him. His hair appeared as if a family of rats had made a nest of it, and there were shadows under his eyes, which were screwed tightly shut.

Suddenly, the bright brown eyes opened and the bow lowered from the violin. Holmes gestured to Watson flamboyantly, bowing. Watson sighed.

"Who gave you the alcohol?"

"Some bohemians at the café in Montmartre… It really does offer inspiration when going off on such artistic little endeavors." replied Holmes, nonchalantly flopping down on the chaise and plucking at his violin's strings.

Watson found the bottle of greenish liquid, read the label, and promptly strode to the window, threw open the shutters, and tossed it out. Holmes raised his hand, making a sound of vague sadness as it shattered several stories below.

Watson turned back. "It was almost empty anyway, Holmes–DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT TIME IT IS?"

Holmes cocked his head and squinted in thought. "Sometime at night?"

"Very funny. It's nearly three in the morning."

"Oh. Suppose I woke you up…"

"Yes," snapped Watson, "Me and Mary and probably half the hotel besides."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"_I'm _being ridiculous?"

"Calm down now, Watson, I've made an important advancement in the case," said Holmes indignantly, "In fact, I think that I might have discovered something quite important."

"Are you going to tell me how?"

Holmes only stared at the ceiling and plucked vaguely at the strings of his violin.

Watson sighed, seating himself. "Fine. Don't, then."

There was a long, awkward silence. Finally, Watson stood. "I'm making tea."

"The men, plural, who took Signorina Tagleoni were actually working for the man who, in fact, wanted to take her," at Watson's bewildered stare, Holmes held up a finger. "What I mean is, the men who took her were accomplices working for a different sort of criminal. After they took her, the man himself took over to provide the charming décor you saw."

Watson stood from crouching by the fire and the tea kettle. "So… the Phantom lied to us."

"No. He merely did not tell us the whole truth. It's not really the same," said Holmes, getting out the sugar and lemon.

"Holmes, what are you doing?" said Watson. "I don't take sugar or lemon, and neither do you."

"But am I right in assuming your Mary takes sugar, Watson?" said Holmes.

Watson stared at him. "Mary's not…"

"What about me?" came Mary's voice, from the door. Both men looked up to see her, her long red hair neatly braided, clothed in a silk robe that was in much better condition than either Watson's or Holmes's, and with a bemused smile on her face.

Holmes's superior look at Watson provoked Watson's, "Your depravity knows no bounds, I hope you realize."

"Oh, I do."

"Boys, would you mind if I took tea?" smiled Mary as she came to sit on the couch.

"Of course, love," said Watson.

"Two teaspoons of sugar, if I'm correct?" said Holmes.

"Yes, dear, but no lemon," said Mary, her poise graceful as she accepted the china teacup from Watson. "Thank you."

"I know that, Mrs. Watson," smiled Holmes, doling out to her the two teaspoons of sugar, "I know."

"Then who is the lemon for?" said Watson.

"Well, since Americans don't particularly know our customs when it comes to the heralded art of tea brewing and drinking, it actually makes sense that the taste itself would be preferable to them," said Holmes, pouring an extra cup of tea while Mary and John stared at him perplexedly.

"Holmes, what in God's name are you blathering on about?"

"Her." Said Holmes, pointing at the door.

A sudden knock made all jump, except for Holmes, who merely got up as if he'd been expecting another guest. "Ladies and gentleman, please check your pockets and hold on to your wallets," he said, gripping the door handle, "For I present to you Miss Irene Adler of New Jersey, Master Thief."

And he swung the door open with a flourish, revealing an impeccably dressed Irene, perfectly made up and still in traveling clothes. She smiled sweetly. "Hope I didn't miss tea?" she said casually.

Holmes said. "Tea with a teaspoon of sugar and a sprinkle of lemon juice, as you like it."

She grinned at him. "Did you change the locks on that pathetic hotel safe hiding behind the cheap painting on the wall?"

"Of course he did," said Watson.

"Ah, Irene dear, I don't believe you've had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Mary Watson?" said Holmes, presenting her to the gently smiling Mary.

"How do you do, Miss Adler? I've heard so much about you, it's absolutely wonderful to finally put a face to the name." she grinned.

"Because these boys have nothing better to talk about than my criminal leanings, now do they?" said Adler, her American accent strangely out of place as she sat beside Mary, "It's wonderful to meet you too. Now," she said, sitting up straight in a more businesslike manner, her eyes sparkling mischievously, "For the real question of the evening… How did you know I was coming, Sherlock?"

Holmes smiled. "Well, I knew you were in Paris. It was really quite simple… in between the headlines about some master thief robbing Parisian nobility blind and the headlines about some mysterious foreign noblewomen that kept breaking off their engagements to rich bastards, it really was quite simple to see your signature. I knew you were in Paris and I knew you knew that I was here, you being you," here Adler giggled girlishly. "So therefore, drawing on my not inconsiderable knowledge of your weaknesses for dramatic flair and nighttime visits, I knew that you would be visiting my hotel tonight. I thought around midnight, since to you it would seem the most romantic and theatrical hour, but I suppose women do have to prepare themselves… and even Master Criminals get caught in traffic at night."

Adler rolled her eyes. "Actually, I was held up by these three French thief lords. They won't be making any problems for quite a while now."

"Don't worry, Mary, she didn't kill them," said Watson to Mary's slightly shocked look, "It's not the sort of thing that's in her repertoire."

"No, it isn't," said Adler, "But I do hope that the front page tomorrow has an article about three criminals previously at large found hanging from their ankles on the Mayor's front balcony in nothing but their greasy yellow underwear."

"With a lady's Parisian rouge decorating their faces, no doubt?" said Holmes.

Irene laughed.

"Thought so," said Holmes, sighing.

"Poor bastards," said Watson, without much feeling, putting his arm around Mary.

"Ah, yes, but you see the case in question…" said Holmes, cut off by Irene sliding herself closer to him on the couch with a coy smile on her face. Holmes shook himself. "As I was saying, the case in question…"

"You mean the one you've been handling at the opera?" said Irene, batting her thick lashes innocently.

Holmes frowned at her. "You know the answer very well, don't you, dear?"

Adler sighed, leaning backwards. "Well, since you ask, I do. I sing, upon occasion, and visited the Opera House. I met your victim, by the way."

Holmes raised a single dark brow.

Adler smiled rather sadly. "She was lovely. A nice girl…bright, too… She had the most wonderful Italian accent, and she was very talented. I've never seen such a dancer. It was like… watching an angel dance. I've never seen anything like it. I'm certain she's the best dancer in all the world. I was sad to see her kidnapping mentioned in the paper."

Holmes nodded. "Yes. 'Talent wasted or broken is a sin indeed'…" suddenly, the detective froze, eyes intensely staring into space.

"Holmes?" said Watson, waving his head in front of his unresponsive colleague. "Holmes?"

"John, what is he doing?" said Mary, looking intently herself at her husband's friend. "Hello? Mr. Holmes?"

"Sherlock?" said Adler, shaking his shoulder.

Holmes started. He looked around the room, then smiled grandly. "I don't suppose anyone would be opposed to the idea of taking a little stroll down to the Opera House, would they?"

Erik sat up, breathing hard.

Christine…

Still, the love of his life haunted his dreams, always there, always finding him when he needed her most, when he was weakest.

But he would not destroy her happiness for the sake of something as foolish as his own.

He loved her enough to know that she deserved better.

Giry had wanted to go far away, to America.

And Erik had agreed… but asked for a year.

Sometimes he still wondered why. He was weak, he knew, and wanted to be near her. Or perhaps, he wanted to make absolutely certain that the fop was good enough for her. Maybe old habits just died hard, and his watching over her for over a decade had impacted him.

Or maybe he just loved her too much to sever all his bonds to her completely. Maybe he wanted to be near her, keep her safe, be the angel she _did_ need, despite what had happened.

He ran his fingers roughly through his hair, trying to calm himself, trying to banish all his desperate thoughts of Christine.

As he had known it wouldn't, it did nothing to take her out of his mind. Nothing did.

In the days when he had hope, when he was with her, the torment of her image in his mind constantly at least had a sweet tone, a light, lovely patina against the darkness of his mind. But when he revealed himself, when her fop found her, everything changed.

Since she had left, since he had let her go, he found that the torture was far worse still.

He got up, seeing perfectly clearly in the comforting darkness.

His eyes, over his long years in the night and the dark, had perfected the art of seeing clearly in darkness where most would have been blind. Now, though he had his candles and gas lamps for light in his cavernous, romantic grotto, he still retained the ability to see like a cat could in the darkness.

He moved noiselessly to his organ, lighting candles fluidly and swiftly as he went. Finally, he sat at his bench, closing his eyes and resting his fingers motionlessly on the keys.

_Something is wrong_.

The thought was unbidden, but he felt it in every beat of his heart, in all the contractions of his muscles, of the rushing music that flowed as easily as blood through his veins.

_Christine_…

He focused on the thought, and, without conscious effort, his fingers began to move over the keys.

His playing was furious and ravaged the senses with its violent desperation and worry.

_Christine, Christine, Christine_…

In every particle of his being, he was still connected to her.

He knew that when he sent her away. He knew that, when he left the woman he loved above all else, he would never, ever be truly free of her.

He knew that. He had always known it.

He would never stop loving her. He couldn't do it even if he had any desire to do so. He could never look at another woman, never even want to share his body with another. The idea made him recoil.

For him, there was only Christine. There would only ever be Christine.

With a crash, he shoved himself away from the organ that, under his hands, had suddenly started uttering the sweetest, most beautiful, yet utterly passionate music.

He stared at the organ like an addict locked in a room with the hateful drug of his choice, an addict with no wish to relapse.

_Stop it_, he muttered to himself, _There is still some of the Ghost left yet. You must not be weak. You must not_…

He furiously raked his fingers through his hair. His eyes, almost against his will, travelled across the lair to the paintings, the charcoal drawings, the sketches, the sculptures, that depicted one subject only.

Christine…

There she was, her head ducked innocently, with her eyes looking up, a smile in them. She was dancing across the parchment, her eyes, the smooth column of her neck, the curl of her hair, the sweet curve of her loving smile. Her fingers curled over a hairbrush, her ivory smooth collarbones over the sensual swell of her breasts, her slim legs and arms spread and free across the paper. Her brown eyes stared, dark and sensuous, wide and innocent, glinting and sparkling with laughter… captured in every medium, across every piece of paper, each one in the view of a desperate lover, throbbing with passion and longing and sorrow and need and joy, and, above all else, love.

He pounded his fist on the ground. "Enough," he said aloud.

He couldn't bear to destroy those last remnants of his love. He simple could never bring himself to eradicate her completely. He was too weak to do so.

_And too much of a masochist_, he thought to himself with a dark laugh.

And his mind inevitably returned to the feeling that had woken him, the instinct that pounded through him.

_She'll be alright_, he thought, _She's not yours to protect anymore. You must stop this. The Vicomte will keep her safe. She does not belong to you, and she never will be again. You cannot guide her or guard her any longer. She has her precious Vicomte. He will keep her safe_.

Even as he tried to convince himself, his hand crept to his hip, where his Punjab lasso was usually tucked safely beneath his cloak. He squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to stop himself.

But it was useless. He existed to protect her, to love her. It was his purpose. Trying to deny an unstoppable force of nature never lasted very long. He knew that better than anyone else.

His eyes snapped open.

"Oh, God damn it all to Hell!" he snarled, moving like a shadow to make his change from a disheveled, tired man into his Christine's Angel of Music.

**A/N**

**OoooOOOOOoooooOOOOOooohhhh... CLIFFHANGER!**

**Hello and welcome back, dear readers. Sorry for the god-awful cliffhanger, I know I'm a horrible person. But hey, it'll keep you turning pages...**

**...**

**Figuratively...**

**Anyhoo...**

**So, I must thank all the readers who have reviewed this, you really pushed me and gave me motivation-in particularly Miss Donna Aminta, whose conversation has actually made me get off my ass and write.**

**Also, I'd like to thank my vacation for allowing me to watch both Phantom of the Opera and Sherlock Holmes (my muses!) consecutively for two nights in a row. So, God bless Andrew Lloyd Webber, Guy Ritchie, Gerard Butler, Robert Downey Jr., Emmy Rossum, Jude Law, Miranda Richardson, Rachel McAdams, Minnie Driver, Eddie Marsan, Ciaran Hinds, Mark Strong, Simon Callow, Kelly Reilly, and yes, even Patrick Wilson for inspiring me so!**

**And, I'd like you all to know that I AM, in fact, working on the next chapter now. Because it's gonna be *pause* BIBLICAL...!**

**I was going to use the f-word just now, but I didn't. Aren't you all proud of me?**

**And, I'd just like to let you all in on a little secret... Christine does have backbone in this story, obviously. And obviously, the night Phantom and Christine spent together is here, in the timeline of Love Never Dies. **

**I like Love Never Dies. It's BAMF and awesome and inspiring and heartbreaking and I LOVE IT!**

**So... please enjoy this lovely venture. Act V coming soon!**

**Love,**

**Ophelia V! Santori**

**UPDATE: 7/20/11**

**As I reread this, as I usually do before I continue the rest of the chapters, I realized I had left a MAJOR MAJOR MAJOR M.A.J.O.R! plot point out when I was writing this! Please forgive me, I am horrible, may God have mercy on my immortal soul. If you reread it in actuality, you may notice some changes that are subtle in context, but by themselves are like WHAM! IN YOUR FACE and I can't believe I left them out. I am horrible person, and worse, a horrible AUTHOR.**

**_I hope you don't mind/I hope you don't mind_...**

**I hope that quoting Sir Elton John will keep them from coming after me...**

**Ahem. Anyway...**

**ENJOY.**


	7. Act V:the Second Player&Unlikely Heroes

**Author's Note:**

**Oh Fuck.**

**Sorry about the naughty language, ladies and gentlemen, but I made a HUGE mistake.**

**I'm not sure if you'd noticed by now, but I made some changes to the last chapter that I can't BELIEVE I left out. I mean, in context it may not seem like much, but if you read the lines by yourself it's like "HOLY SHIT SHE _FORGOT_ THIS?"**

**Pretty effing pathetic...**

**But enjoy this chapter! It's REALLY Long... I'm so proud :)**

Chapter Five: The Second Player and Unlikely Heroes

"Driver, stop!" snapped Madame Giry. The sudden slam on the brakes caused Meg's loose blond hair to fly forward.

"What in God's name…?" she muttered to herself, then opened the carriage's door.

"Detective!" she shouted out to him.

Holmes's head turned to her direction, his rumpled hair cleared from falling over his eyes. The finely dressed woman at his side looked towards the sound, too, her brown curls reminding Madame Giry strangely of her adopted daughter, Christine.

"Who is that, Sherlock?" asked Irene quietly.

"That's Madame Giry, the ballet mistress I was telling you about," said Holmes.

"Ah," said Adler, "She _is_ exactly as you described her."

Mary, using her hand that wasn't linked with Watson's, gestured towards the ballet mistress. "Isn't that–?"

"Yes, love, it is," said Watson, "What is _she_ doing here?"

"Detective Holmes, you must come quickly!" said Madame Giry.

The four companions ran to Madame Giry's halted carriage. "Madame, what is going on?" said Holmes, quite nonchalantly.

"I would not be so devil may care about it, if I were you, monsieur," said Madame Giry, seriously, "You see, there has been another murder."

Mary gasped.

Meg Giry's blond head popped up from behind her mother, her brown eyes panicked, "Your men from Scotland Yard are already there, monsieur. Oh, please, you must come!"

"Alright, let's go then," said Holmes, the four oddly matched individuals–Doctor, Wife, Theif, and Detective–piled into the carriage with the two Opera House residents.

"Why so panicked, mademoiselle?" said Adler kindly, to Meg.

Meg made a trembling effort to speak, then burst into tears and enveloped herself in her mother's arms. Adler, in shock and embarrassment, tried to apologize, but Madame Giry cut her off with a calm shake of her head.

"Please, Miss, it is not your fault," she said quietly, then paused. She took a deep, tired breath. "It's only that the murder took place near the home of her dear friend, and it appears the murderer tried to victimize her as well."

"What friend?" asked Watson.

But Holmes beat Madame Giry in a reply.

"Oh, Watson, don't you see the plot thickening?" he said, for once, sober rather than sarcastic.

"Excuse me, monsieur?" said Madame Giry.

"Your daughter's friend who was victimized is the famous soprano singer, Christine Daaé, now Vicomtesse de Chagny," said Holmes, ignoring the shock in his fellow occupants' eyes, "And she is the woman who has been labeled next by the murderer."

"Please, Monsieur Ledoux, I really am fine," said Christine, lying through her teeth in an attempt to get the bumbling old man away from her.

"Lookit, Mr. Ledoux, if the lady says she wants you away from her, than I suggests you back off, there's a good lad," said the British Inspecter Lestrade, "As she wants no more questions right now, wouldn't you just hang off for a moment?"

Monsieur Ledoux tried to hang on to his self–importance, but unfortunately for him, Sherlock Holmes had already arrived.

"So, this is the great force of Parisian gendarmes," said Holmes from the doorway, the paper with Lestrade's gathering of evidence and testimonials thus far hanging loosely in his hand, looking at Lestrade, "I can't imagine why they need our help, can you, Lestrade?"

Christine snorted quietly, holding back laughter.

Monsieur Ledoux looked at her, utterly confused and angry as a result. "And who the hell are you, Monsieur?" he blustered.

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "I'm the private consulting detective, and you are the man walking all over my crime scene. Please, inform your gendarmes that bumbling blindly around the scene and confiscating the evidence is not going to help us catch any killers, if you would be so kind."

Monsieur Ledoux blinked, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly like a great toad. Finally, it seemed the seriousness of the case settled into his mind. He cleared his throat, and within moments, the gendarmes were cleared out of the room.

"One thing I'll say for the French, they know how to disappear," said Watson.

Christine smiled, laughing hoarsely.

"Christine!" screamed Meg, barreling into the room and throwing her arms around Christine, who tried to contain Meg, comforting her and embracing her tightly.

"Come now Meg, we are here to comfort Christine, not throttle her," said Madame Giry gently, smiling. She knelt to hug Christine, touching her cheek with a motherly smile and whispering, "It's good to see you, my dear."

Christine smiled sadly. "The same, Madame. I'm so sorry that we haven't–"

Madame Giry cut her off with a wave of her hand. "There is nothing to be sorry for, my dearest child. Don't apologize." She gripped Christine's wrists, then paused.

"There is something… different about you, my child. Something…"

Her eyes lit on Christine's now noticeable stomach, curving out from under her dress in a way that was impossible to miss.

"Oh, my darling child, congratulations!" she said, unusually emotional as she clasped Christine's head in her hands and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

Meg shrieked, hugging Christine even tighter, though more mindful of her stomach this time. "Christine, why didn't you tell me? Oh it's so wonderful! Have you thought of names? Do you think it's a boy? Or a girl? Oh, will it look like you or Raoul? Oh, I simply can't wait! Maybe it will sing just like you Christine, and you can make music together, and I can dance to it, and we'll all have–"

Christine gave her first genuinely happy smile since seeing her and kissed both her cheeks. "_Peace_, Marguerite. _Thou talkst of nothing_."

"Oh, alright, Benvolio!" said Meg sarcastically, then returned to her more naturally girlish enthusiasm, "Oh, it's just so exciting."

"Looks like you're about four months along, then?" said Watson, smiling at her. "It's alright, dear, I'm a doctor. Congratulations." To explain, he said, "I assist Detective Holmes there, sometimes. With his cases."

"I'm Mary, his wife," said Mary kindly, smiling, reaching to shake Christine's hand, "How wonderful for you, this child. Congratulations."

Holmes gestured at Adler, "This is Miss Irene Adler, from America. She's my… colleague, as well."

Watson forced down a snort of laughter.

Adler looked at Watson, then switched Christine, smiling genuinely. "Yes, my congratulations to you, as well, sweetheart."

Lestrade shuffled his feet, trying to hide his nervousness in the face of such feminine matters. "Well, Miss Countess, I suppose congratulations are in order," he said. "You've got them from me."

"And me." Said Clarky quickly.

Christine laughed, thanking them all with a smile, then slowly, her laughter faded.

Meg stopped quietly, as well. After a short silence, she said slowly "If only we had found out a different night."

Christine nodded, as Holmes looked down at the case report.

"Yes…" he said, pensively.

For a moment, among the strange assortment of people in the room, there was a silence… The two Scotland Yard policemen, Clarky with his _Victoria Regina_–honoring helmet tucked awkwardly under his arm, while Lestrade stared down at his leather boots, thinking very hard of something that was not clear to anyone else; the doctor Watson, in a disheveled suit with his arm around Mary, her gray silk dress contrasting with her hair still in a hurried braid, both sombered and saddened by the strange moroseness in the room; Irene in all her decadent luxury, feeling guiltily out of place with all the vibrant purple silks and ornate black lace that adorned her, the Marquis's missing ruby on its heavy silver chain feeling much more of burden around her neck; Christine, Meg, and Madame Giry, three artists who had all lost something in the past year, particularly Christine with her ancient eyes and wearied, hollow expression; and Sherlock Holmes himself, his forehead puckered with an emotion that could have been worry, or perhaps sadness, or deep thought, or even pain… but no one else could have really told even if they tried.

Finally, it was Holmes who moved to break the silence. He cleared his throat, moving from his place by the doorway.

He held the maids' testimonials, Ledoux's report, and the doctor's crime scene observances in the air, speaking to no one in particular. "This is quite… unlike anything I've seen, in all my experience. It's all here… gore, darkness, horror, mystique… There's just–one thing that's missing…" He sat on the chair opposite Christine, and leaned forward.

In a tone uncharacteristically gentle for him, he spoke. "Vicomtesse, though I fully understand what you have seen tonight may be difficult for even someone as strong as yourself to relay, I would like to ask you some questions. Please believe that if it was not completely necessary in order for me to catch this murderer, I would never do it. However, as it is, it is unfortunately… needed. We can stop whenever you–"

"Please, Mr. Holmes," Christine interrupted quietly, "I am stronger than I seem."

"It's true, Monsieur," said Madame Giry.

Holmes smiled. "Well, if _you_ say so, it must be true, Madame."

He turned to Christine. "She's quite trustworthy, don't you agree?"

Christine smiled, nodding. She found, to her surprise, that the Detective was not at all what she had expected. He was bluntly forward, bitingly sarcastic, blatantly ingenious, horribly strange, terrifyingly eccentric… and she liked him immediately.

Besides, if Madame Giry liked him, he wasn't the bad sort at all. The Madame, as she had learned in her eleven years of living, was, despite her severeness and stern hand on all who she governed over in the Opera House, unerringly of good judgement and, without fail, always knew a good heart when she saw one.

She had, after all, been right about the Phantom, in the end.

She was brought back to the present by Meg's hand squeezing hers reassuringly.

Holmes's bright, penetrating gaze took in her face, and she smiled, prepared.

His hands formed a pyramid, and he rested his chin lightly on the tips of his fingers. He stared intently, not at her, but at a spot in space somewhere beside her shoulder. She found this strange, but accepted it with ease.

Holmes began, "What time was it, approximately, when you were woken by your maid Gabrielle's screams?"

She shook her head, slowly. "No, Monsieur, I was already awake."

He arched an eyebrow, looking at her questioningly.

"I was wakeful. I couldn't sleep, so I rose and dressed to see my father's grave. It helps me to speak to him when I am troubled," she explained.

Holmes nodded. "That explains the mourning costume. I had wondered… Forgive me for saying so, it does contrast quite strongly with your current… state." he gestured vaguely towards her belly, swollen more noticeably now with pregnancy.

She nodded. "No, monsieur, you have every right. It's true, I know. Well, I woke at around… perhaps midnight, monsieur. Then I was awake in bed for perhaps 20 minutes. I got up and got ready and was out in maybe five. So, it was about half past midnight by the time I was in the corrider."

"Where you collided into Madamoiselle Gabrielle, am I correct?"

"Yes," said Christine, "That is correct…"

_Gabrielle dragged Christine by her wrist to the maid's quarters, still hysterical but all the more determined for it._

_The smaller room was painfully full of shrieks and sobbing from the younger maids, with the older ones trying to comfort them, their own faces snow white and eyes wild with barely suppressed terror._

_One of the more experienced servants, a woman named Madeleine, rose to meet Christine. She was a strongly built, but attractive woman in her mid–thirties, married with two children. Her sandy hair, usually tucked messily behind a crisp, white kerchief, was wild around her pale face and dark brown eyes like a crazed, harbinger angel's halo. Her mouth was pressed in a thin line, fighting to suppress tears._

_"Madame, we are so sorry to wake you, but…" she trailed off, steeling herself further, then continuing, "We did not know what to do. You see, there was a knock at the door. And well, you know how Bianca is the light sleeper, how she usually does the things at night? Well, she–she–"a stubborn tear slid down Madeleine's freckled cheek. She wiped it off furiously. "She found a package on the doorstep, and…"_

_Christine turned in the direction of Madeleine's gaze, to a shuddering form sobbing hysterically into another's lap, as the other, older woman struggled to calm the distraught Bianca, stroking the dark, nearly black hair with shaking fingers._

_Christine resisted the panic in the air, and knelt to touch Bianca's shoulder. "Bianca, dear…" she said gently, not letting her own growing fear make her voice tremble._

_A stream of rapid, feverish Italian streamed from the gutturally weeping girl, but she turned her terrified face to Christine. _

_Christine had learned Italian when she had been with her Phantom. He had been a good teacher, but his natural inclination as a polyglot gave him an advantage over her. She struggled to understand the broken, shaking, frenetic words escaping from Bianca's lips, but she made out._

_Death… So much death… No more… No more blood, please… There is so much blood, so much death, take it away… _

_The fear in her even more acute now, Christine shook Bianca frantically. "Bianca, what happened? Tell me!"_

_Bianca gasped, gathering her strength. "I came to the door, and no one was there. There was only a package. I know I shouldn't have, but I opened the paper, and there was this pretty box, Madame. I thought it was a gift, for you, perhaps, from an old admirer, perhaps… I didn't think there was any harm in opening it, but…"she pointed with a shaking finger at an ornate box, sitting innocently in a corner of the room. _

_Christine rose and strode to the box swiftly. Madeleine grasped her wrist. "Madame, I don't know if…"_

_"If what, Madeleine?" said Christine. "You called me. I am not going to stand here idly while everyone around me falls to pieces. I am going to do something about this!"_

_And, despite all the horror and agony in the air, Madeleine smiled half–heartedly as Christine knelt at the box. _She's no delicate, wilting flower, namby–pamby, air–headed noblewoman, alright_, she thought in utter admiration, _She's a _real_ woman_._

_But the positive feeling disappeared as Christine undid the latch on the intricate box._

_Christine stared at the engravings on the top of the box… her fingers running over the flowers that spread all over, and the strange letters engraved on the lid._

ΘAΛIA

_Her pale fingers traced the letters. She shook her head in confusion, then slowly opened the box…_

_…And froze._

_In the box were rumpled pieces of paper, lined with sketches in blue pencil and scrawled notes in blue ink. She knew from knowing the Phantom that they were architectural drawings._

_But what made her freeze were the crimson bloodstains soaking them. And they appeared to be wrapped around something._

_Fearfully, fingers shaking but determined nonetheless, she unwrapped the layers of architectural drawings, and, as the last sheet fell away, she gasped in shock and could not hold back a scream of terror._

_There, in the center of the box, was a human eye. It stared, round and dark and socketless, eerily at nothing, sitting like a watchdog over a white envelope, with her name scrawled on it in red ink._

_Christine forced down the bile that rose in the back of her throat. She breathed through her nose instead of her mouth, knowing that the coppery scent of the blood would only push her over the edge. _

_She picked up the envelope, labeled _Christine Daaé_, trying to ignore the bloodstain on it. Gingerly, she opened it. _

_Inside, there was a note. She pulled it out, frightened to read it but knowing she had no choice. She unfolded it and read the words scribbled in the disturbing red ink._

_**My "Christine Daaé",**_

**_The eyes have it. Whether they are chocolate brown (like yours), or the color of the sea (like the man whose name you say in your dreams), or powder blue (like your husband's), or even dark sepia (like my "Charlotte Garnier's"), they are the windows to the soul. Take the eyes, and there is no soul. Do you want to lose your soul? I don't want her to, and neither does my lovely "Charlotte Garnier". Luckily, the gods saw fit to give her a spare. She is waiting for you, my beautiful Madamoiselle "Daaé". You are both mine. Try to save Madamoiselle "Garnier". Her house is on the map enclosed in this envelope, not so far from your husband's. Don't get your hopes up, however, for you must know that she will be mine tonight at last. For you, it is not so long now. In the name of the gods, you may have faith in that._**

**_Your Master,_**

**_Lord Jove_**.

_Shuddering, she dropped the note, rubbing her hands on her skirt as if to cleanse herself of the horrible words. Her hands clutched over her stomach, and she thanked God she was kneeling, for she surely would have collapsed had she been standing. Her fingers trembling even more, she pulled the map out of the envelope and looked at it. The note had been right. Not so far from her own home was the home of this Madamoiselle Garnier the man spoke of._

I can do this_, she told herself, _I have to help this woman. I don't care what the bastard says_._

_In the background, Christine began to notice a strange ripping, guttural sound. She stood shakily and turned around to ask Madeleine if she heard it, too, and saw the looks on their faces, staring at her._

Oh_, she realized, _that sound is me_._

_And she felt her knees give out, as she finally felt the tears coursing down her cheeks, the bile rising in her throat. In a Herculean effort, she staggered into the maid's bathroom and vomited into the washbasin._

_The maids all waited outside, staring at the door that their Mistress had somehow closed behind her before the awful sounds of wretching and sobbing emanated from the small room it enclosed._

_Finally, Christine emerged, her curls wild around her face, her face pale. But her mouth was set in a firm line, and her back straightened._

_"Gabrielle, would you please ready a carriage for me?"_

_"Pardon, Madame?" said Gabrielle._

_Christine sighed. "I am going to do my best to help this Charlotte Garnier, whoever she is. This man cannot scare me. I will help this poor girl, and if harm comes to me, so be it!"_

_"But Signora, your child–!" said Bianca, then slapped her hand over her mouth in shock, her eyes widening._

_Christine raised an eyebrow. "You know?"_

_All the maids nodded, awaiting punishment for being so forward._

_But Christine only laughed weakly. "Thank God," she said, "Now you can understand why I've been so strangely harsh."_

_Instantly, all were clamoring that she was not, she was a wonderful mistress, that she was positively alright, she was doing great for her first time, but Christine only smiled, exhaustion and somberness preventing any true happiness from leaking into the expression. _

_"Please, Gabrielle, if you don't mind." Instantly, Gabrielle went, despite her shakiness, to ready the horses and fly._

_"Madeleine, I'm going to go clean up, then I'd like you to go into Raoul's study and fetch me his pistol." At the maid's look of shock, Christine explained. "I will tell him it was me, and that I needed it. If he would rather I was completely unarmed against a raving madman in a strange house, so be it."_

_Christine came down the stairs, Raoul's pistol concealed in the folds of her cloak, her own knife sandwiched safely between her corset and chemise. Cleansed completely of the taste and smells of vomit, blood, and tears, she came into the carriage to find Madeleine and another maid, similarly built, staring at her with stubborn gray eyes._

_"Isabelle said she wanted to come too, Madame," said Madeleine, "I could not stop her."_

_Christine smiled, her eyes filling with tears._

_Isabelle's gray eyes widened. "Oh, I don't need to come, Vicomtesse, if it bothers you. I could always–"_

_"No, it's just that… It means so much to me that the both of you were willing to come," said Christine. "Thank you."_

_The carriage ride was silent for the rest of the time, but as they neared, Madeleine gasped._

_Christine was shaken out of a reverie as she stared blankly out the window, and turned to see the reason for Madeleine's outburst._

_Madeleine was staring out the window, repulsed, Isabelle wearing an almost identical expression of horror as she looked in the direction of Madeleine's gaze. Christine moved closer to look outside the window._

_Almost immediately, she wished she hadn't. _

_The ominous glow in the distance and the black smoke billowing malevolently from the same place seemed to cast a black cloud over all the world as it filled the view as far as the eye could see._

_"Ashes to ashes…" muttered Christine darkly under her breath._

_To all their dismay, but not to anyone's real surprise, as they pulled out of the trees surrounding the pristine property, the house the map had led them to, the home of Charlotte Garnier, was burning._

_As the pulled closer, Christine could see in the smoky light of the fire all the sculptures adorning the gardens that, as far as she could see in the limited, flickering light, rivaled the gardens of Versailles._

_The house itself was a masterpiece. There were flying buttresses, Gothic windows and balustrades on the extravagant balconies that stemmed gracefully from a house that was a wonder of architecture._

_"God won't stand for this," said Isabelle, her lip trembling. "He won't let it happen. The world can't stand like this. It just can't."_

_"What does she mean?" wondered Madeleine aloud._

_"It is the darkest sin of all other things to destroy and ravage something so beautiful and perfect. How God allows any of this to happen…" her voice broke off. "It is a sin indeed."_

_And the carriage pulled up, to a fountain spouting fonts of water almost mockingly into the air in front of a house that was quickly catching fire, making a blaze. The huge building was not yet engulfed in flame, partially due to its immenseness, but it was only a matter of time. Christine began to run towards the front of the building, which had not yet caught aflame. _

_"Madame! What are you doing?" shrieked Madeleine. "It is too late! You can't go in there, it's burning!"_

_"And what am I supposed to do?" said Christine furiously. "Just stand here while people die? Just let it happen all over again?"_

_"What do you mean, 'again'?" said Isabelle._

_Christine turned to look at the house, and back at the maids. Her jaw suddenly set, her mouth hardening in determination. "Don't you dare try and stop me." She said firmly._

_Leaving the maids and the coach driver in shock, she ripped a shred off her dress, doused it in the fountain, and put it over her nose and mouth. With that, she ripped the heavy double doors open, and threw herself through the arched gateway and into the burning house._

_She ran headlong through the yet unaffected entry hall, noting in surprise that the part of the house had not yet even filled with smoke, by some miracle._

_Wet silk clutched in her hand, she began to run through the labyrinth of hallways, calling desperately. "Madamoiselle Garnier? Charlotte? CHARLOTTE GARNIER! GARNIER! CHARLOTTE! YOUR HOUSE IS BURNING, ANSWER ME! ARE YOU THERE, CHARLOTTE GARNIER? HELLO? PLEASE, IF YOU'RE THERE, ANSWER ME!"_

_She suddenly reached a large staircase, which forced her to come to halt, in complete shock. _

_The staircase was a shocking parallel to the Grand Staircase that stood in the Entrance Hall of the Opera Populaire. The reminder of flames licking at those stairs spurred her to climb up them, shouting desperately. To the left, there was a stunningly beautiful stained glass window overlooking a courtyard that was beginning to catch fire. To the right, there was a pair of magnificently ornate double doors at the end of long hallway._

_Christine ran down the hallway, still screaming for Charlotte. _

_Out of the corner of her eye, she managed to see magnificent paintings every interval where a door would usually be. At the bottom of the paintings were large shelves, with bowls of water, filled with floating flowers of every color and kind._

_Christine found a wistful thought enter her mind… that she had spent her time introducing herself to this reclusive neighbor, instead of the endless parade of simpering, egotistical, gossipy, arrogant, spoiled, vulgar, haughty, rude, condescending Parisian nobility. If only she hadn't taken Raoul's words so to heart when he laughed about the "Mad, uncouth recluse that lives so unfortunately close" down the road._

_She pushed the thought from her mind. She didn't have time for such thoughts._

_Finally, she reached the doors, which seemed to be locked. Cursing violently, surprising even herself with the barrage of foul language that spewed from her mouth furiously, she slammed her thin frame against the door. Of course, they didn't move an inch._

_"DAMN IT!" Christine shouted._

_She heard a crash, and her head whipped around to see a glass bowl shattering on the ground. But there was no one around who could have knocked it over…_

_That worry disappeared, however, when she saw a glint of gold amidst the wreckage of broken glass and wet flowers._

_In her desperation, she fell to her knees and shoved the glass and flowers aside, ignoring the stabs of pain as she cut her fingers in light of the object in front of her._

_A small, gold key lay shining on the ground, seeming to wink at her as she picked it up with bleeding fingers._

_She ran back to the door and found a keyhole on the massive door, hearing the key turn and the mournful click of the door unlocking._

_She flung her own not–so–impressive weight against the door, and, to her short–lived relief, it swung open._

_But in a few seconds, her relief became horror once again._

_For in the master bedroom of Charlotte Garnier's architectural masterpiece of a house, the Devil himself had come to stay._

_The bodies of people–women, children, and men–were nailed to the furniture in a manner that made it look as though the room was built in a medium of bloodied, bruised, and broken corpses._

_On the wall, architectural sketches were hung, the lines of blue and the delicate spidery handwriting marred with splotches of blood. Carved into the wall, stained with blood, was a message:_

**THE SECOND PLAYER:**

**DESIGNS BLOOMING FROM THE EARTH**

**IN ENDLESS FORMS**

**CHOSEN FOREVERMORE**

_Christine couldn't move. Her chest was frozen, and her breath would not come. For a moment, it seemed as though she would never move again._

_Her knees suddenly gave out, and she buckled onto the floor, breaths beginning to heave gutturally in and out of her, much too quickly to control. Without bidding, tears began to spill down her cheeks._

_There was a burning, nauseous sensation inside her, and she forced herself to focus so she would not vomit all over the bloodstained carpet. Her eyes still overflowing with tears, she made her way shakily over to the bed. _

_From the looks of the uniforms, the entire workforce of Madamoiselle Garnier's home– maids, stableboys, footmen, and all–had been slaughtered in cold blood._

_There was a sudden moan of pain from the bed, and Christine started, screaming hysterically._

_From under the crimson–stained covers, a little boy poked his head._

_Christine covered her mouth in horror._

_One of his eyes had been carved out of his head._

_For his sake, she forced herself to stop sobbing, for at least her body to stop shaking. She was very proud when she spoke, for her voice did not tremble in the least. "Hello. I'm here to help you, don't be afraid."_

_The little boy reached out his arms blindly, and with a shudder, as she saw the filmy, milky glaze over the boy's existing eye, she realized he was now completely blind._

_Her motherly instinct taking over, she came to the bed, avoiding the bodies with a rush of repulsion, and wrapped her arms around the little child, in his stable–boy's uniform._

_"Mama?" he said, "Where's Mama? Have you seen her, please Madame? She works here, she's a scullery maid…"_

_Christine felt a rush of agony, throbbing and deep. She knew only too well what it was to be alone in the world_

_Hush now, it's alright. Who did this to you, hmm?" she whispered, dropping a kiss on his temple, "Who did this?"_

_The boy stared ahead with his milky, dark brown eye, the empty, bloody socket making her resist the urge to break down completely._

_"He was… he was…" the boy began to hyperventilate._

_"Hush, hush darling," she said, "What did he do to you?"_

_"He gave me something to drink," the boy whimpered, "He said it would make the pain go away…"_

_She held him tighter, and her lips parted in horror as he began to spasm uncontrollably. He suddenly curled into a ball on the bed, convulsing beyond his or a frantic Christine's control._

_He was choking, heaving, and Christine rubbed his back, feeling his muscles spasming sporadically underneath her fingertips, and she bit her lip in an effort to stay calm, for the child. _

_But when the child suddenly vomited a crimson fount of blood, Christine could no longer hold in a sound that emitted from her, against her will, somewhere between a gasp and a scream._

_"Mama!" the little boy screamed between fits, "MAMA! IT HURTS!"_

_Christine bit back sobs, rubbing her eyes furiously to keep the film of her tears from blinding her._

_And finally, the boy breathed his last, and he stopped convulsing. He lay dead and peaceful in her arms._

_She crossed herself with trembling hands. "Rest now," she said, closing his existing eye, "Poor baby…"_

_"Poor baby, indeed," drawled a voice, condescending and terrifying all at once. _

_She was off the bed in a flurry of terrified, spastic, frantic movement, and gripping an opportune candelabrum in another._

_"You should not pity him," said the voice, "It was mercy. He was nothing but a human."_

_"He was a child," spat Christine, "You bastard, how dare you speak as if you were better. I knew him for but a moment and I can say easily that he was worth a hundred over of you."_

_"Tsk, tsk," said the voice, struggling to remain aloof, but barely hiding a current of very human anger, "I would think that a Vicomtesse would have better manners. Then again, you were nothing but a ballet rat before you became a still lowly soprano singer. It must be force of habit for a woman like you."_

_Christine bit her lip. "And you are nothing but a human." she mocked him._

_She was met with a dark silence. "How dare you, little singer?" said the voice, ragged with anger that was barely contained, "Do you not know what you are?"_

_"I am Christine," she said, "Nothing more or less."_

_The voice snickered. "Liar," it said, "Liar, liar, liar…"_

_It faded away, and she heard footsteps in the room above her. She looked up, crouching back against the wall opposite the bed, the candelabrum still brandished weakly in her hand._

_She heard liquid splashing above, and stared at the creaking beams above her head._

_There was a sudden burst of flame, and all at once the ceiling was engulfed in a pool of licking, searing flame._

_The heat burned Christine's face from where she crouched, huddled, in a ball. In horror, she crawled as quickly as she could to the door, only to find it locked from the outside. "No," she gasped._

_Abandoning her attempts to keep herself safe from the heat, she sprinted across the room to the windows, trying to open them, but they were bolted shut. "Damn it, no!" she shrieked._

_Frantically shielding her rounded stomach with her free arm, she grabbed the candelabrum, wielding it as she ran towards the door. She attempted to shove it through the cracks–in between the two doors, at the bottom near the floor–but they were not nearly wide enough._

_She found herself beginning to choke on thick, black smoke. "No…"_

_She collapsed to the ground, crawling low on the ground. Her coughs grew increasingly more labored, and her heartbeat pumped faster in horror._

_She curled around her stomach, protecting it. "I'm so sorry," she said, sobbing. "I tried so hard to get us out, my darling…"_

_She steeled herself._

_"NO!" she said. "It does NOT end here!"_

_She ran to the door with renewed determination, slamming her thin frame into it, hoping for it to give just a centimeter, a millimeter, an inch… anything._

_Eventually, she found that a haze having nothing to do with smoke began to whirl around her vision. She fell to her knees, still beating the door with hopeless fervor._

_"No…" she cried thinly._

Christine stopped. She looked up at the detective, and found his gaze had moved to look at her.

"I'm sorry… Um… I don't really remember what happened after that."

He raised an eyebrow. "You don't?"

"No. I… it's just that it's all–er–you know, I can't really remember anything. It's all muddled and fractured." She stammered, thinking hard. "The next thing I remember is sort of… staggering around in the halls, then… finding myself outside in the garden. Then I came around the front and met the Inspector. My maids had called him, you see, and he brought me here to my house. We've been in the maid's quarters ever since."

He stared at her for a long time.

She stared back.

Finally, he broke the stillness.

He leapt to his feet, rubbing his hands together enthusiastically. "Well... I'm glad you're alright, Madame de Chagny. You were very brave tonight, and we're so very grateful to you."

She offered her hand, and he kissed it politely. "It was an honor to meet you, Mr. Holmes."

He bowed. "The same, Madamoiselle Daaé, the same."

There was utter silence in the carriage and amongst its four occupants.

Mary sat curled against John, her head resting on his broad shoulder. Both his arms were around her, his chin resting on the top of her head.

Adler was improperly close to Holmes, but, though she would have admitted it to no one, she found the closer she was to him, the easier it was to hold back the tears.

They would eventually come, she knew that. But all she could do was to postpone them as long as possible. Already, she could see even Mary's strong façade across from her weakening around the edges.

Holmes sat, staring at nothing, distant and cold as he was when he was deep in thought, embroiled in emotion he never expressed.

Adler finally gathered the bravery to lean her head against his shoulder.

Without a second thought, his arm went around her and he kissed the top of her head. He whispered into her curls, in a voice uncharacteristically warm and gentle, "It would be best if you just cried now, darling. Holding it back is never good for you. I'm here. Go on, now."

So she did.

Raoul de Chagny was not a particularly fast reader. He never read if he could get away with it, and when he did he hated it. But he had never read anything that made him as furious as he was now.

He slammed his wife's testimonial down on the table, shaking with rage.

His wife stood across from him, arms crossed over a belly he couldn't believe he hadn't noticed until now. It stared at him, rounded and protruding from her snow white nightgown.

Hiding his guilt and shame in his anger, he shouted.

"What in the name of HELL were you FUCKING thinking?" he shouted.

"Raoul, don't swear, it makes the maids nervous," she said quietly.

"DAMN IT, CHRISTINE, DON'T!"

"Don't what? Talk calmly? Why not, Raoul? What do you want me to do, pray tell?" she hissed, frightening even herself with intensity of her bitterness. "Sob? Scream? Fall to my knees and thank you for taking me back after I left without asking your permission? Forgive me if I don't exactly seem what you would expect for a woman, with child, who nearly died tonight."

And leaving him speechless and guilty, she strode away from him, trying to hide the angry, guilty, hurt, and hysterical tears that were beginning to uncontrollably plummet down her cheeks.

Watson stared at the quickly emptying bottle of wine in front of him. He stood, pleased to find he was not unsteady on his own feet.

"Holmes, I'm going to go turn in. Mary needed some time on her own, but I think that now…"

"Yes, it's best if you join her," said Holmes, "Goodnight, old chap."

"Goodnight, Holmes…Irene."

Adler nodded graciously, then stared at the table top as the room fell into silence. Eventually, she took a second swig of wine. She and Holmes stared at each other.

"How's the wine, darling?" said Holmes, smiling at her.

Her face stained with black eye makeup that had smudged from her tears, her eyes red–rimmed, her skin patchy from crying, she still looked beautiful to him when she smiled half–heartedly. "It's wonderful."

She sighed. "But I'd kill for something stronger."

He looked at her, putting a hand on her shoulder, then got up. "Gin, Irene? Or perhaps some Irish wine?"

"Oh, whiskey, please." she said, "Reminds me of home."

He served them both with whiskey, then watched as Irene swigged hers down. She grimaced as the taste burned her throat, then smiled heartily. "I needed that," she said, rubbing her face with her hands and sighing, "God, what that poor girl was through. Can you imagine? And she was so… so lost, so empty. She shut herself off, Holmes. I've seen women like her before, and they're missing a part of them. Something happened to her. And it wasn't what they say in the papers, or those rumors that fly around Paris, either."

"I know that, Irene," said Holmes, "You can rest assured that the knowledge of Christine Daaé's supposed scandal being nothing but fabrication and fanciful rumors created by an aristocracy whose depth would envy that of a puddle is safe with me."

She smiled half–heartedly, and he saw her eyes growing wet with unshed tears. He touched her face, brushing away the tears on her cheeks, tracing her lips with the most feather–light of caresses.

"You know, Irene," he said, "Not that I doubt you in the least…"

She smiled half–heartedly, reaching to grab his free hand impulsively.

"…But not even the best of us can be strong _all_ the time. You have to remember that. You are the bravest person I have ever known. But you are only a human being, after all."

"So are you," she whispered, smiling as she reached up to touch his cheek. He stared at her intently, into the depths of her dark eyes.

She embraced him, finally reaching up to kiss him gently. He kissed her back slowly, creating shivers that ran up and down her spine.

He stroked her back as she rested her face against his chest, nestled in his lap without a whit of care for propriety.

"I think I should like to speak more with Madame de Chagny," said Holmes, "And I'd like to divine why on earth she is trying to hide something from me."

Adler looked up at him. "What?"

"She lied when she said she didn't remember anything else about tonight," said Holmes, "She remembers more. She just doesn't want to tell us what she remembers. And I need to know why."

"I knew something was wrong," said Adler, "I know you."

"I have no doubt in my mind that Christine de Chagny is no villain," said Holmes, pensieve and curling his fingers in Irene's hair as he increased intensity, "She is a victim, of that there is no question. But she is lying to us, mark my words. And before this week is out, I will discover all her secrets, for better or for worse. I fear that without knowledge of what happened, this case will never be solved."

"And you won't rest for that, will you, Sherlock?" said Adler, eyes fluttering in exhaustion and peace as she began to drift off, huddled against him, safe in his warm embrace.

The night air was cold on her skin, but she could not bear to sleep, not with all that had happened the previous night.

It had taken her almost an hour to accept that she would not sleep that night. The grief, the guilt, the sorrow, the torture, or the nightmares would claim her either way she chose.

In the end, she chose to rise and walk about the garden, preferring the torment of her waking emotions to seeing the faces of dead people and burning houses in her sleep.

She was afraid. That was undeniable. But she refused to show it, in all her boundless tenacity. She would _not_ let the bastards who would seek to make her weak see her bleed.

But she needed comfort. And with Raoul passed out drunk on the bed, even he could not offer his limited amount of reassurance. Even if he had been in any state to do so, only one person could give ease her inner torment at the moment.

She sighed heavily, sitting down on the marble bench surrounded by foliage and impenetrable bushes of flowers. It was her secret place in the grandiose de Chagny mansion, where she came to hide from all the world crashing down around her.

She knelt, careful not to wet or stain her nightgown on the green grass, silvered in the moonlight.

Near the wall of the manicured green hedge that was part of the expertly designed labyrinthine garden, there was a large, blossoming tree. Its branches were pure silvery gray in the moonlight, its leaves budding as the blossoms of palest pink floated through the air, carpeting the ground around the tree.

But at the base of the tree, there was a patch of disturbed soil.

With her bare hands, Christine patiently brushed aside layer after layer of earth, in an effort to keep her hands as clean as possible.

Finally, her fingertips brushed the smooth surface of a wooden box.

Ever so carefully, she eased it out of the earth.

She opened it, to find Erik.

Every memory, every scrap of evidence she owned of his existence, she had in the box. Notes with his flourished signature and red wax seals broken by eager, girlish fingers; dried roses tied with black silk ribbons; sheets of music presented to her by her Maestro as gifts; a shred of fabric from the wedding gown; and finally, the most heart breaking item, small and glinting like a watchful eye in the box.

His ring, given to from her to him as she had left, and left back with her when he left her alone that night beneath the moonless sky, lay in the box, a sad salute to their undying, broken love.

She closed the box and clutched it to her heart, crying heartbrokenly like a little girl.

For she knew the worst of all things… he loved her still, as he would always, and was always watching over her.

That he was so close yet so far away was torture enough.

Yet there was worse.

She couldn't believe, still, how she had lied so steadily to the consulting detective. For a moment, she had known he didn't believe her. But then, so quickly, he had dismissed her, perhaps to think further on her devious motives.

If he had only known she was trying to return a favor for her desperate lover and always protector, her Angel of Music… well, she would die before betraying the man she loved.

She closed her eyes.

Especially after that night…

_"NO!" she said. "It does NOT end here!"_

_She ran to the door with renewed determination, slamming her thin frame into it, hoping for it to give just a centimeter, a millimeter, an inch… anything._

_Eventually, she found that a haze having nothing to do with smoke began to whirl around her vision. She fell to her knees, still beating the door with hopeless fervor._

_"No…" she cried thinly._

_Greedy claws of smoky death reached up to take her, and she found the darkness swallowing her before she could even gather the strength to fight it. But Christine refused to give in._

No_, she screamed inside, _No, no, no, NO_._

_So when there was a light, a grasping hand, a voice calling her back, she grabbed onto it for dear life._

_Someone was dousing her in a volume of cold water, soaking not just her face to wake her, but also every inch of her clothing._

_"Christine," said the voice, "Christine, listen to me. You have to come back. You have to stay with me, do you understand?"_

_The jolt she got from hearing his familiar, seductive, beautiful voice wrenched her back to earth._

_Her eyes fluttered open, and there he was, in all his splendor._

_His eyes, all the colors of the sea and sky, stared desperately into hers._

_"Erik…" she whispered, reaching out to him._

_He grasped her hand, tenderly. He kissed her fingertips, eyes closing. Abruptly, his eyes opened and he dropped her hand, only to pull her up again._

_"Christine, I need you to douse yourself in this water," he said, "It will help to keep your attire from being set aflame."_

_He was all business, cold and polite, and she hated it. She wanted _him_, not some ever–present guardian made of stone._

_She did as he ordered, then started as he grabbed her wrist, leading her after him._

_She didn't know how many fires they avoided, how many twisting paths they took through the burning pitfalls of Charlotte Garnier's architectural masterpiece, but they eventually had found their way to the stone terrace, where he led her deep into the gardens, eventually to a large lake accented with trees around it, and a little stone dock at the edge._

_He sat her down on a stone bench, almost roughly._

_"Stay here. You will be safe." he said firmly, turning heel to leave._

_"Where the hell do you think you're going?" said Christine, angry now._

_He turned, a flicker of shock to hear almost–profanity from Christine's lips in his eyes. But he quickly resumed his monotonous façade. "I have protected you. And now, _Vicomtesse_, I think it is best that we sever our meeting here. I should go. Goodbye."_

_His accent on her husband's title did not go unnoticed. "How dare you," she said, her voice low and furious._

_He turned to her, arching a brow nonchalantly. "Beg pardon?"_

_She came closer to him with each word, building anger as she advanced. "Don't you dare affect this stone wall to hide behind. I know you, and I loved you. I still do, so don't stand there and pretend there is nothing between us," she said, pain entering her voice as she gasped furiously, "I gave everything to you. I chose you, and I would have followed you through the flames of Hell if you asked me to. But you _left_." She choked, "How could you?"_

_"So you didn't have to walk through Hell, Christine!" he groaned, ripping his fingers through his hair agitatedly. "I would never wish that upon you, I love you too much. Your life is better with the boy, go home and be safe and sound and cozy with him, I really can't–"_

_"Don't you tell me how my life is better, because even you don't have the right to decide that. You don't live my life. You don't know what I want, apparently, though I've told you time and time again. I want you, and I most certainly am not happy without you. I live my life in misery in a gilded cage, and you tell me that I am blessed for it? Well perhaps I have not suffered as you have, but you have no right to tell me what is good for me!" she shrieked, "I need you! You are what is good for me! How could you not know?"_

_"You left me first, if you so recall," he said, nearly as furious as she, "And it didn't take long for you to recover afterwards, did it? Tell me, Christine, how long after you gave yourself to me did you marry your beautiful fop?"_

_"What choice did I have?" she screamed._

_He stared at her, something inside him breaking as she collapsed to the bench in wracking sobs. He sat beside her, reaching to dry her tears with his nimble fingertips._

_At first she pulled away, but eventually, she fell into his embrace, sobbing into his chest and wrapping her arms around him, her softness pressed against his body of all hard muscle. He held her as if there was nothing more precious in the world–and there wasn't, really, not for him._

_Eventually, she quieted. _

_"Do you really think I am better off without you?" she whispered._

_"Most definitely," he said, the pain breaking his heart in two, "You have no idea."_

_"I love you," she whispered._

_"And I you, Christine. Always. Until the end of time. But no angel should ever be cursed with a devil. So you have to go. And I…" he trailed off, buried in her warmth, loving her every breath, her soft body wrapped safely in his._

_She disentangled herself, staring at him with an intimacy that frightened and wounded him further, and then rose to walk away._

_Let her go… he thought, She must go…_

_His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist._

_She turned back to him, to see his eyes, intense and ocean blue with every horrible emotion, all the sadness and pain and misery she had ever known to exist swimming in his eyes._

_He yanked her to him, pulling her until she was improperly straddling the bench._

_She had no time to protest until suddenly his lips were against hers, hot, demanding, and utterly passionate._

_She buried her fingers in his glossy, dark hair and pulled him as close as she could._

_He kissed her with all his pent–up agony, all his loneliness, all the anger and abandonment and injustice and misery and cruelty he had ever felt. He twisted his lips hard against hers, his tongue stroking the inside of her willingly open mouth, searing her with its intensity._

_She gasped as his lips, still passionately rough and desperate, rained kisses down her jaw, trailing a fiery, licking, sucking, kissing path that traveled down her neck, making her shudder as he laid her out flat, leaning over her with one arm supporting his weight on the bench as he laid his heavier body over her own._

_His lips were brushing over her collarbone, playing her like a beautiful instrument, one that only he could play and one that he needed to play, or else perish._

_She moaned in symphony with him, grinding her hips against his as his tongue dipped into the hollow at the base of her throat._

_Her hands pressed him closer as his lips travelled to the lace at her low neckline, his kisses impossibly searing yet still tender at once. _

_Finally, he laid his head at her bosom, both his arms now holding her to him as though he were a drowning man and she was the only thing that could save him. _

_She felt the burning sting of hot tears on her ivory skin and had to bite her lip to fight back a sob for her dearest Angel, who had endured a lifetime of Hell and continued to do so, only so she could see Heaven._

_She stroked his head, soothingly, lovingly. For a moment, there was nothing but the two of them, nothing at all._

_Eventually, once his shaking sobs had ceased, he disentangled his arms from around her, bringing his long, sinewy body up to her level._

_Despite the sensuousness of his actions, the kiss that he pressed to her lips was surprisingly tender, and she buried herself in it, losing herself and drowning in him. He was the only hope for her, the thing she believed most in, all she would ever need or want. And as much as he claimed the same, she didn't think he could believe that she loved him the same as he loved her._

_In one fluid, catlike movement, he had switched their positions; him lying stretched out on the wide, long bench, and she lying on top of him, huddled into his warmth._

_For how long they lay like that, she didn't know. There was, for a moment, a world where only the two of them existed, a peace settling over it that was only interrupted by the black smoke and flickering light from the burning house pouring malevolently into the sky._

_Eventually she spoke. "How did you know?"_

_"I felt it, Christine. I have always known when something is wrong when it comes to you, and I knew when I woke tonight that some unknowable fate could befall you if I did not interfere," he said, trailing little patterns over her back with his fingertips, "And I could not bear to abandon you completely."_

_She gulped. "How much did you see?"_

_His body tensed, and she could feel the anger in his rigid muscles. His voice was cold with barely controlled fury."I saw everything, Christine."_

_She was quiet for a moment. "I'm next."_

_"Don't say that!" he hissed. "Nothing's going to happen to you! In between your Vicomte, the Scotland Yard, the detective, and Madame Giry, no one will let anything happen. You are safe."_

_"I know, it's just that…" she swallowed hard. "I'm afraid."_

_He hugged her tighter, pressing a kiss at her temple. "Don't be. I'm here. I won't let him touch you. He will die first."_

_She curled her fingers in his clothing, refusing to relinquish any hold on him. _

_It was useless to ask Erik how he had seen, how he would protect her. Erik had his ways, that was simply accepted. No one had ever discovered the secrets, and no one ever would._

_For with Erik, secrets revealed were only the ones he divulged himself._

_Christine tried to choke back a sob as she said, "Please, don't let him hurt me."_

_He growled fiercely. "I will go to the ends of the earth to protect you, Christine Daaé. Don't you ever doubt that."_

_She kissed his neck, and he met her lips with his own, and she knew from his tenderness, his sadness, that it was a kiss of goodbye… at least for now._

_She hugged him tightly, as he lifted her effortlessly in his arms, carrying her without breaking the kiss._

_After they said their last, tearful, desperate, passionate goodbye, he was gone, dissolved into the shadows._

_And Christine Daaé, a newly marked woman, staggered into the light, into the vision of her terrified, screaming maids._

"Madame Giry, why have you called us here? I am aware that you are concerned for your surrogate daughter, but really the crime scene has been investigated to its full extent, trust me…" Holmes said, only to be cut off by the stern ballet mistress.

"And I realize you are very busy, M. Holmes, but I am not the one who called you here. Suffice to say, the one who requested audience with you is considerably more stubborn than I, and insisted both you and Dr. Watson attend," said Madame Giry, "Really, I have no more control over it than you do."

"Alright, then," said Watson, "I think you've built up sufficient suspense, Madame. Who is our mysterious contact?"

Madame Giry shook her head teasingly. "Oh, you shall see all in good time, Monsieur."

All was silent as she led them down the darkened hall, to a dead end, with a beautiful painting hanging over the bare wall.

But before either man could comment, the ever–full–of–surprises Madame Giry removed the portrait to reveal a clever latch.

She did something strange with her nimble fingers that caused something mechanical to click in the wall, and with a groan, a visibly seamless door swung open from the expanse of bare plaster.

Holmes smiled. "It's ingenious," he enthused, "How do you–?"

She gestured for them to go through the doorway. "This is your day, gentlemen."

She handed Watson the gas lamp. "Good luck, my friends. I have some work to do, so don't make a mess, will you? Good. _Bonne nuit_."

The two men simply stood there for a few moments.

Eventually, Watson spoke. "My dear Holmes, I do think that every single person in this Opera House is entirely mad, or at least partially insane with eccentric tendencies."

"Well, Watson, I can't help but agree–however, I must point out that without such insanity, who would get any fun out of life at all?"

Watson rolled his eyes, knowing his friend to be quite a bit of an eccentric himself.

They both careful step through a rough–hewn stone passage, the walls round around them, the only smooth surface being the ground, which was, oddly enough, tiled with squares of black and white marble.

Watson, noticing this, muttered, "What the…?"

Eventually, both began to see a gleaming light at the end of the curve in the tunnel. As they rounded the turn, the passageway became a hallway.

The smooth walls and ceiling could have been from any hallway above ground, plastered and finished with gold accents along the middle. The gas lamps along the side made it look like the hallway… the only thing to give away the actual setting was the strange chill in the air, and the odd lack of windows along the long hallway.

Eventually, they reached a door. It was arched, decorated with carvings in the wood, depicting countless scenes from varying stories. Holmes recognized Quasimodo from Victor Hugo's _Notre-Dame de Paris_, Jean Valjean and Javert from _Les Miserables_, a scene from Oscar Wilde's _The Nightingale and the Rose_, Don Juan and Aminta blissfully quiet in each other's arms, Victor Hugo's _The Man who Laughs _pictured clearly on the wall, Lucie de Lammermoor with her lamenting face raised to the heavens, Dante's _Divine Comedy_ in all its three stages, Marguerite and the doomed Faust, and the voluptuous Gypsy Carmen before Watson spoke, interrupting his concentration.

"Should we knock…?" he wondered aloud.

Holmes raised a fist, loath to knock against any of the masterpieces on the door and risk even slightly ruining one.

"Enter."

Both men jumped at the curt, musical voice that emanated from beyond the door.

Before either could move, the door swung open of its own accord, to reveal a cavernous, ornate room with dozens of candles and gas lamps bathing it in a golden, warm light.

And in the center of the room all swathed in reds, golds, and blacks, the great Opera Ghost sat, his gaze calculating, a cold, distant expression on his face. He cut an imposing figure, all in black against the red of his chair.

"Please, gentlemen…" he gestured gracefully, "Sit."

"I'd rather stand," said Watson.

The Phantom smiled icily. "I insist."

Both detective and doctor looked at each other and reluctantly sat.

The Phantom created a pyramid with his fingers, and rested his chin lightly on the tips, his expression pensive, as if he was deciding what to say.

It reminded Watson eerily of something… but he couldn't put his finger on what.

Finally, the Opera Ghost spoke, quietly. "You are, of course, aware of the rumors they tell of me and the singer, Christine Daaé, now the Vicomtesse de Chagny?"

Both Watson and Holmes picked up on the bitterness in his tone when he mentioned the title.

"Naturally," said Holmes.

The Phantom sighed. "There is not an ounce of truth in these rumors. You may have already noticed that, while I wear a mask, I am not, in fact, a living corpse with glowing yellow eyes and skeletal fingers?"

Holmes and Watson nodded.

The Phantom smiled bitterly. "And, of course, that I am not dead, regrettably."

"Well, I did wonder…" said Holmes sarcastically.

The Phantom chuckled darkly. "Well, gentlemen, I'm sure you are quickly becoming aware of the facts, as well."

Holmes nodded. "Well, obviously, your disfigurement only spans half your face. You do wear a half mask and you are some sort of musical, mad genius, but I take it you are not in league with the Devil, nor are you some sort of demonic spirit possessed of supernatural ability?"

The Phantom smiled. "Very good, Mr. Holmes. You're making progress."

"And I'm sure you, Monsieur, know about the threat our madman made to Miss Daaé two nights ago?" said Holmes, raising an eyebrow.

Though it was well concealed, Holmes did not miss the flicker of pain, fear, and anger in his eyes.

"Yes," he said, voice low with barely concealed anger, "Yes, I am."

"How much do you know?" said Watson.

"Everything."

"Are you sure? It was kept quite–"

"_Everything_."

Watson nodded.

Holmes stood, beginning to pace the room. "Monsieur Phantom, do forgive me, but don't you think it's about time you did enlighten us with the truth? The real truth? Because I think that none of us, Watson in particular, can work with cryptic half–truths and strange insinuations."

The Phantom's turquoise eyes narrowed, then closed in thought. Finally, they opened again, and he leaned against his chair nonchalantly.

"Ask what you wish, gentlemen, and I will answer honestly, or I will not answer. But no lies, I promise," he said.

"Watson, you first," said Holmes.

Watson raised his eyebrows, but willingly asked. "You speak of Miss Daaé in a way that one who had heard the rumors would not quite expect. What happened between you and her all those months ago?"

The Phantom sighed heavily. "I suppose I shall have to start at the beginning," he said.

"When Christine Daaé first came to the Opera House, she was a broken–hearted, sad, newly–orphaned seven year old girl. I was a bitter, angry, hateful young man who, though at the peak of his years, felt as though the whole world had aged him fifty years in his travels through Europe and Persia. I hated the world, and it hated me. The only person with whom I had any connection was Madame Giry, who had saved me when I first came to the Opera House. She was my only friend. And of course, through her, I became a sort of godfather to her daughter, Meg, and her new foster daughter, Christine."

The Phantom paused in his narrative, as though it were painful for him.

"For weeks, the girl barely spoke, ate, or did anything at all. She was listless, empty. I knew what that was, and I pitied her. The only time I ever heard her speak was when she was praying in the chapel, to her dead father and to God, of course. She was all alone, and she knew it. One night, I was watching her, unaccustomed to the strange feeling of sadness that came over me when I watched her, and she began speaking of something very strange. 'You promised, Papa' she said, 'You promised you'd send me the Angel of Music, when you were gone!' She was quite distraught. 'I don't want an angel, I want you, Papa. But why did you lie? Was it to make me be good? Papa, I just want to know you're there…' I don't know what possessed me, but in that moment I sealed my fate. I began to speak to her, as the Angel of Music, telling her everything was alright, that I was there and her father had sent me, and that I would school her in music like her father wished. I am not used to feeling helpless, monsieurs, but this girl did that to me. It was uncomfortable. For years, we were student and teacher, and I loved her so. She was my joy. She wasn't even eight and she was already my salvation."

The Phantom gulped, as though it were difficult for him to continue. Holmes and Watson felt extremely uncomfortable. The great Opera Ghost, fracturing before them…

"But she grew up quickly. Something was changing. I didn't understand at all. The day she turned sixteen was the day I realized, with passionate horror, that I was deeply, irrevocably, impossibly in love with her. From that day forward, something was different between us. I found it difficult to live with myself, but I couldn't change it. So, I schooled her well, until it came time for her debut. Now, the night after, I'm aware most say I abducted her, something the Vicomte has argued most passionately. But she came quite willingly, I assure you. I revealed at last that I was no angel, only a man. And that I loved her. Quite a lot."

Watson raised an eyebrow. "Did you…?"

The Phantom's eyes grew icy, and Watson could have sworn they went from deep green–blue to icy pale. He spoke slowly, controlled rage behind each word. "I am… well aware of what people believe I did to her. _La Maîtresse du Fantôme_, they called her. Or, for the less gracious, _La Prostituée du Monstre_. Even those who didn't blame her believe that I ravished her. But, as I said to your before, I am guilty of almost every sin in this life except for forcing myself upon a woman. As I never have been, I never shall be, am I quite clear?"

The two men nodded, and the Phantom continued.

"Everything was going so well, until her natural curiousity caused her to remove my mask. I was… angry. I think now, looking back on it, that my fury frightened her far more than my face. I took her back up, knowing nothing could ever be the same between us. I told the managers to give her the lead in the night's opera. They, unwisely, refused. I was angry enough at this. But then it came to my attention that a certain stagehand was becoming far too curious about me for my liking. He was a flyman named Joseph Buquet, and he was well known throughout the Opera House for his marked preference for the youngest, freshest, most innocent ballet girls. He had set his sights on Christine," the Phantom snarled, "Not knowing it was his death warrant. I killed him, that night, sending poor, frightened Christine into the arms of her now husband."

The Phantom paused, the pain in his eyes overwhelming. Both Holmes and Watson were shocked to see him so helpless.

"I was… frightfully jealous. Over the next few months, I was not seen at the Opera, whilst Raoul and Christine became engaged. At the Bal Masque, celebrating the New Year, I made my appearance, with my Opera, Don Juan Triumphant. I was cruel to all the people there, dangerous. But to Christine, I was unforgivably possessive. I stole her ring and disappeared, nearly killing the Vicomte when he chased after me. Madame Giry came to his rescue. Suffice to say, the famous Opera you know now caused the fire was a plot to kill me, by the Vicomte. Ah yes, a tactical masterpiece, that was. Christine, for whatever reason, exposed me before all of Paris, and I kidnapped her, in actuality, this time. Furious, I tried to force her to marry me. I threatened the Vicomte, but she showed me kindness, compassion… love…"

He was silent for a very long time.

"So I let her go. So she could be happy. It is all I ever wanted for her."

He stared into the flames dancing across from him, eyes full of all the pain and sadness and ancient tiredness of the world.

Finally, Holmes spoke. "You love her very much, don't you?"

"Yes."

"So you want to help us, now, don't you?" said Watson slowly.

"Yes," said the Phantom, "She deserves better than me. But you see, my dear doctor, she is all that I have ever lived for. I love her and I always shall. So I must protect her."

Holmes nodded. "You would be a great help, monsieur," he said.

The Phantom smiled, humorlessly. "I could only hope."

Holmes reached out his hand to shake. The Phantom took it, sealing their alliance.

"Oh, and gentlemen? Should you ever… reveal what I have told you to anyone else without my permission… I will ensure that you, and the person you have told, will be punished as I see fit."

Both men nodded. "You can trust us, you know," said Watson, "You may not like us, but we aren't complete bastards."

The Phantom laughed. "Trust is something I am not accustomed to, Mr. Watson. You'll forgive me if I don't embrace it completely quite yet."

Holmes's eyes glinted as he smiled. "Well, what are we waiting for? For gentlemen, unless I am mistaken, I do believe that the game is afoot."

Watson smiled. "Of course, Holmes."

The Phantom spoke. "Let's send this murdering bastard to Hell where he belongs."

"Elementary, my dear sir," said Holmes, "Naturally."

***takes deep breath and lets it out slowly* That. Was LONG. No, really. It took me such a long time to write. I had to like dole out my writing periods slowly over eternity.**

**Not that I was complaining... I enjoyed it immensely. Got some E/C loving, some Adler/Sherlock fluff, some gore, some violence, some references to Greek mythology (AGAIN), not to mention our Heroes finally joining together... All in all, a fine days work. :)**

**Still, this gargantuan behemoth of fanfiction chapterness gave me some trouble when I was uploading it. Had to take out my secret weapon: the Clipboard of Justice. **

**Not really. But anyways...**

**I made an artwork on Publisher (cause I don't have Photoshop, okay? D:) of Our Heroes and put it on my deviantart. Here's the link:**

**.com/#/d41f3q4**

**It's pretty sexy, not gonna lie. Although the graininess is HIGHLY irritating, I love it. It gave me some trouble as well while I was uploading it, so that's why the irritating grains are there. Just ignore them, you'll only encourage them if you yell at them.**

**Over the course of the last writing period, I have seen some pretty epic movies-some of which I'd seen before, some of which I hadn't.**

**Just in case you haven't noticed until now, I am a movie person. So my new thing is that when I update these chapters, I am going to tell you what movies I have seen. And rate them out of 10.**

**The Elephant Man w/ John Hurt and Anthony Hopkins (10/10); Hotel Rwanda w/ Don Cheadle and Joaquin Pheonix (9.5/10); Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2 w/ Daniel Radcliffe, Ralph Fiennes, etc. etc.(10/10); Transformers: Dark Side of the Moon w/ Shia Lebouf and Optimus Prime (7/10); One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest w/ Jack Nicholson and Louise Fletcher (10/10); The Dark Knight w/ Christian Bale and Heath Ledger (10/10); Corpse Bride w/ Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter (10/10); Edward Scissorhands w/ Johnny Depp and Winona Ryder (10/10); Moulin Rouge! w/ Nicole Kidman and Ewan McGregor( Um... 10/10); Phantom of the Opera w/ Gerard FUCKING Butler and Emmy Rossum (are you kidding me? 10/10); Jaws w/ Robert Shaw and Richard Dreyfuss (10/10); Predator w/ Arnold Schwarzenegger (7.5/10); Whip It w/ Ellen Page and Drew Barrymore (10/10); Amistad w/ Djimon Honsou and Morgan Freeman (10/10); Shawshank Redemption w/ Morgan Freeman and Tim Robbins (10/10); and Moonraker w/ Roger Moore (8/10).**

**Overall, a good month.**

**And so I leave you, my freaky darlings, with these quotes from Oscar Wilde (not all of which I neccesarily agree with), one of my favorite writers and general people EVER (Sucks about his stupid Anti-Semitism, though):**

******"Man is least like himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth."**

******"Music makes one feel so romantic - at least it always gets on one's nerves - which is the same thing nowadays."**

******"Illusion is the first of all pleasures."**

******"Genius is born-not paid."**

******"Every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter."**

******-Oscar Wilde**


End file.
